Crash and Burn
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: AU Story – Hurt Sam (17) / Big Brother Dean (21) / Likeable John / Awesome Bobby – It's one of Dean's worst nightmares: his little brother trapped in a burning car.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: AU Story – Hurt Sam (17) / Big Brother Dean (21) / Likeable John / Awesome Bobby – It's one of Dean's worst nightmares: his little brother trapped in a burning car.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine

**Author's Note**: Just posting a little something in honor of my nine-year anniversary on this site. Also, this story was inspired by the music video for "May We All" by Florida Georgia Line. If you haven't seen it, I encourage you to check it out.

* * *

_There's danger in the lesson learned. Slow down before you crash and burn. – G-Eazy _

* * *

"C'mon, Dad. Fifty-fifty split."

John snorts at his oldest standing behind him, leaning against the bottom edge of the truck lift and watching him work. Dean still trying to bargain over how they will divide tonight's winnings – as if this conversation doesn't end the same way each week.

"Dean..." John begins, angling for a better view of whatever is causing the truck's drive shaft to stick instead of rotate. "This speech is gettin' old."

"Your excuses are gettin' old," Dean counters. "There's no reason why we can't be 50-50. Winchester and _Sons_, right?"

John chuckles at the emphasis. "Right," he agrees, struck for a moment by the weight of those three words: _Winchester and Sons_. Not only the name of their family business, but a way of life since Mary had died – just him and his boys left behind.

A familiar sadness twists his heart at the thought. John wonders if Mary would approve of how he's raised them, of how their lives are now. Being a mechanic is honest work, but he knows she would worry about the stockcar racing they do on the side.

"Too fast, too unpredictable, too dangerous," she had told him the one time he had mentioned it.

And John agrees. Stockcar racing fits all those descriptions and then some.

But the money is damn good.

And Dean is damn good behind the wheel.

John's oldest wins more races than he loses, and John knows Dean is right – he deserves a 50-50 split of the cash he earns going 'round those dirt tracks. But Dean is only 21. The school of hard knocks still has a lesson or two to teach him before John graduates him to equal partner.

"So, we got a deal?"

"Yeah," John replies. "Seventy percent to me, 30 to you..._if_ you win. That's our deal."

The same deal they've had for the past year.

Dean scoffs. "That's bullshit. And by 'if,' you mean _when_," he points out, his cocky tone matching his smile. "You know I'm the fastest driver in Douglas County."

"Well, you _used to be_," a voice corrects, entering the garage and their conversation. "But that was before I started driving."

"Hilarious," Dean deadpans as his little brother approaches.

Sam grins, socking a half-hearted punch to Dean's arm.

Dean socks him back and gives Sam a once-over like he always does whenever the kid has been out of his sight for longer than a few minutes.

Sam knocks his shoulder against Dean's, assuring his brother he's fine as he leans beside him.

"How was school? You kick anybody's ass today?"

Sam laughs at the question, at his brother's way of checking on him. "No. Did you?"

Dean shrugs. "Day ain't over yet."

Sam smiles and shifts his attention to John. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey," John returns, metal clanking against metal as he exchanges one socket wrench for another. "You hungry? There's a couple slices of pizza leftover from lunch up at the house."

Sam gasps, feigning shock as he glances at Dean. "_You_ left pizza?"

"Only for you, Sammy," Dean quips, and Sam knows he's only half joking.

It wouldn't be the first time his big brother ate less of a favorite meal to make sure there was enough for Sam later.

"Thanks," Sam tells him. "Pizza sounds so good right now. I'm starving."

"You're always starving."

"It's the age," John comments, remembering when Dean was the same way as a teenager. "You got homework tonight?"

"Yes, sir. But I finished it in study hall."

"Of course you did," Dean remarks, earning another chuckle from John.

He glances at his boys standing there together – their bond closer than anything he has ever witnessed, yet they're as different as night and day. Dean is loud and defiant while Sam is quieter, calmer. They're both smart, but Sam is more analytical, more studious; he craves knowledge and books more than Dean ever has.

While Dean was eager to get under a hood and hone his skills as a mechanic, Sam has been more reluctant. He has yet to outright refuse to help in the garage, but John knows that day is coming, knows Sam is completing college applications and writing scholarship essays. And although having one of his sons reject the family business stings, it isn't a complete shock.

John knows his youngest is different. Mary used to remind him all the time, and he and Dean have discussed it over the years; even more so now that Dean works alongside him in the garage every day while Sam is at school. They both know the kid can't wait to graduate and leave Lawrence in his rearview. But they also know Sam will struggle to leave _them_, and if it's selfish to hope that bond keeps him at home, then fine – John is a selfish asshole.

He just can't bear the thought of losing one of his boys.

John swipes a greasy hand across his forehead and sighs, refocusing on his work. He needs this truck fixed and off the lift before they head out to the track within the next hour.

"Since your homework's done, you feel like racing tonight?"

Sam's eyes widen at the offer as he glances at Dean.

"Don't look at me. It was Dad's idea."

And it was.

With each passing day, John had become more desperate to entice his youngest to stick around after graduation. While Sam had shown zero interest in the mechanic side of the family business, there was a spark when it came to the other side – the stockcars.

When Sam had turned 16, John had allowed him to drive in the off-season. Sam had watched his father, then his brother race for years, but it was different in the driver's seat. Both John and Dean had made sure the kid was trained, comfortable, and ready before allowing him on the track with other cars going well over 100.

In the fall of that same year, Sam had subbed for Dean in two races to get his proverbial feet wet. John hadn't expected much, but to his surprise, Sam had held his own against veteran drivers. He had been proud of the kid – _damn proud_ – and had seen the excitement on Sam's face. He knew his youngest had the potential to be as good a driver as his oldest. Sam just needed experience...and John was eager to give it to him.

"What d'ya say, Sam?" John prompts as the kid just stands there, speechless and wide-eyed. "I think you're ready. I think it's time both Winchester boys kick some ass and take some names."

Sam blinks, realizing John isn't planning for him to take Dean's place in the race. He's planning for them to drive together in the same race – both representing Winchester and Sons in separate cars.

Sam glances again at Dean. It's no secret he's proud of Sam's accomplishments on the track, but Sam knows his big brother also worries about his safety.

If John had said it once, he had said it a thousand times: a worried driver is a distracted driver. And Sam refuses to do that to his brother. He refuses to be the reason Dean drives worried and distracted. He refuses to be the reason Dean loses...or worse, crashes.

Sam holds Dean's gaze. "I think I'll sit this one out."

Dean shakes his head, appreciating his little brother's gesture even if it's unnecessary. Sure, he'll worry about the kid tonight. But worrying about Sam is something Dean does every waking moment, regardless of whether Sam is on the track, at school, or anywhere else.

If anything, Dean will feel better knowing he's out there _with_ Sam, knowing he can look out for the kid and run interference if the other drivers become too aggressive.

Still under the truck on the lift, John glances at his boys, allowing them to work out the details in that silent way they often do.

Sam shifts from one foot to the other as he ping-pongs between his options – to race or not to race. He wants to, but...

"It's up to you," John says, tightening the wheel bearings on the truck. "I just need to know how many cars to load on the trailer."

Sam bites his lip and stares Dean.

Dean smiles. "Two," he answers and slings his arm over Sam's shoulders. "We're taking two cars tonight. Right, Sammy?"

Sam tries to smile, relieved the decision has been made even if he's not sure it's the right one.

"I just have one question, Dad."

John turns to face his sons and arches an eyebrow at Dean, waiting for the punchline.

"If Sammy wins, is it still 70-30?"

Sam rolls his eyes as John laughs.

"Are you his manager now? Negotiating rates and payouts?"

Dean grins and rubs a rough hand through Sam's shaggy hair. "Nah. Just lookin' out for my kid brother."

"Yeah. You do that," John replies, his tone light but his expression serious.

Dean understands his father's message and answers with a nod. He will _always_ look out for Sam – on and off the track.

John returns the nod, then jerks his chin toward the yard. "You boys go hook up the trailer and get ready to load."

"Yes, sir," they reply in unison and head out of the garage, side-by-side.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

It doesn't get much better than this – flying down the highway with Zeppelin's "Ramble On" blaring from the speakers while his little brother sits shotgun beside him. John's truck is in front of them, hauling the trailer and most of their gear.

Every race starts this exact same way – same song, same passenger, same view out the windshield – but tonight is special; tonight, there are _two_ cars in that trailer.

Dean buzzes with adrenaline, pumped about what this means for Sam, about what this means for their family business. Not one but _two_ Winchesters on the track.

The world isn't ready.

Dean grins, feeling the resistance of the wind as he hangs one arm out the window while his fingers drum the beat of his favorite song against the Impala's steering wheel.

Across the bench seat, Sam sits still and quiet; his fingers drumming against his knee for a reason other than his appreciation of Dean's kick-ass taste in music.

Dean's grin fades at the classic signs of an anxious little brother. Sam has been driving for barely a year with only two races under his belt. Tonight is a huge step forward in his potential racing career, which is exciting...but also scary and nerve-racking. Dean gets that. He just chooses not to focus on it.

Sam on the other hand...

Dean sighs and reaches for the radio knob, catching Sam's attention as the music is reduced to a low rumble.

"Get out of your head, Sammy. It's a bad neighborhood."

Sam snorts at the familiar line.

"I'm serious, man. You can psych yourself _up_, but don't psych yourself _out_."

Sam lifts an eyebrow at the advice. "Thanks, Yoda. But I'm good."

"Good, my ass," Dean shoots back. "I'm not fuckin' around, Sam. You've gotta be focused on the track, not distracted by whatever bullshit you're telling yourself over there."

"Whatever," Sam mumbles, turning to stare out the window. He tries to ignore the intensity of Dean's gaze as it flickers between him and the road, but the edgy silence only adds to his pre-race jitters.

Dean sighs at his stubborn, moody little brother and debates whether to stick with the tough love approach or switch to something else. "Sam. Just – "

"What if..." Sam interrupts, then hesitates as if saying it aloud will make it true. "What if I'm not ready?"

"What?" Dean scoffs. "Dude. Are you serious?"

Sam's lack of response _is_ a response – the kid is serious.

"See, this is the kind of bullshit I'm talking about, Sam," Dean snaps. "And you know it's bullshit, right?Of _course _you're ready."

"Why?" Sam counters, still staring out the window. "'Cause _Dad_ says so?"

"No. 'Cause _I_ do."

The answer isn't unexpected, but it still catches Sam by surprise. It always does. Dean is his biggest fan and fiercest protector. He would never let Sam do something he didn't feel was right or safe. Sam knows that. He's just sometimes overwhelmed by the reminder of how much Dean loves him, of how often his big brother stands between him and danger.

"Sammy..." Dean calls, his tone less harsh than before as he realizes Sam isn't just being a pain in the ass about this. The kid is scared. "Hey. Look at me."

Sam turns his attention back to his brother, and Dean is struck by how young and unsure he looks.

"Listen..." he begins, exiting the highway. "You got this, okay? I wouldn't let you out there tonight if I didn't think you could handle it."

Sam narrows his eyes. "I thought you said this was Dad's idea."

"It was. But I got final say. And if I didn't think you were ready, you'd be sittin' in the pit tonight like usual instead of in the driver's seat." Dean pauses, allowing that to sink in. "But you _are_ ready. You got this, Sammy," he repeats. "You're ready. Ready to..."

A smile tugs at Sam's lips as Dean's voice trails off; his big brother waiting for him to finish the family's racing motto.

"C'mon, Sammy. Ready to..."

"Kick ass and take names."

"And don't forget their money," Dean adds with a wink. "We like to take their money, too."

Sam smiles, thankful for Dean's confidence in him and for the relief his words bring. He can always count on his brother to believe in him even when he doesn't believe in himself.

Dean returns the smile and gives an affectionate slap to his little brother's chest. "Now chill the fuck out and stop killin' my vibe," he orders, reaching for the radio knob to blare the next Zeppelin song.

Sam laughs and feels himself relax as his earlier tension disappears. He sinks deeper in the Impala's seat and stares out the window again; his smile lingering as the scenery flies by.

Five songs later, Dean slows their speed and makes the turn for the entrance to the racetrack. "Big crowd tonight," he comments, taking a quick survey of the number of trucks and trailered cars waiting in line to settle up with the track's owner. There's at least twice as many vehicles parked in the spectator's lot. "This is gonna be so fuckin' awesome!"

Sam hums, sounding doubtful.

Dean glances across the bench seat at the kid chewing on the side of his thumbnail. It's a little Sammy habit that is both maddening and endearing, and Dean wonders if his brother will ever grow out of doing it when he's nervous. Without a word, he reaches to lower Sam's hand and smiles when the kid looks back at him with those big eyes blinking under a fringe of bangs.

"Chill."

Sam nods, but Dean can tell his pep talk is already forgotten now that Sam can _see_ the amount of competition. Sam's previous two races were small – no more than three or four cars on the racetrack with him – but tonight's race is where the big boys come to play. Tonight's race will have at least a dozen other cars. Every single driver will want to win and will be ruthless in their pursuit of that checkered flag.

Dean remembers his first race at this level. He was so high on excitement and adrenaline he felt like he was floating, like it wasn't even a real experience...whereas Sam looks like he's going to throw up from the nervous energy coursing through him.

It's typical Sam, and Dean ruffles his little brother's hair, earning a grunt of protest as Sam ducks and swipes Dean's hand away with a scowl.

Dean chuckles. He'd rather the kid be annoyed than anxious.

As the line creeps forward, he splits his attention between their dad's truck in front of them and his brother beside him. Sam isn't chewing on his nail anymore, but if he clasps his hands any tighter, he's going to cut off circulation.

"What if..."

Dean arches an eyebrow as he waits for this latest example of his brother's overactive imagination. By the way Sam is stalling, it must be a doozy.

Sam swallows and looks straight at Dean with a boldness that implies if he doesn't blurt what's on his mind, he'll never get it out. "What if I crash? What if my car catches on fire, and I die before I can get out?"

"Jesus, Sam..." Dean replies, feeling like the kid just sucker-punched him. "Don't say shit like that."

"Why? It could happen." He pauses, and Dean knows what he's going to say before he says it. "It happened to Mom."

And there it is – the tragedy that defines their family.

Dean had only been four, and Sam had still been a baby when it happened. John has never divulged details, but the brothers have researched on their own. They know their mom didn't just die in a car accident on her way home from work. It was much more horrific than that since Mary wasn't killed in the immediate impact. All reports indicate she was still very much alive when the car had caught on fire. Despite heroic efforts from rescue workers, the mangled vehicle had kept her trapped until the smoke had suffocated her...and the fire had consumed her.

The image had haunted Dean for months, and Sam had experienced frequent nightmares for at least a year. When their dad had questioned the change in his sons, Dean had confessed they knew how their mom had died – not just the vague explanation John had supplied but the unspeakable details the newspapers and police reports had outlined with blunt detachment. They knew how Mary had spent her last moments, choking and gasping as smoke had filled her lungs; her last thoughts undoubtedly of the husband and two precious boys she was leaving behind.

John's only response had been a curt nod, but Dean had also seen the way their dad's eyes had misted; how he had clenched his jaw against the pain still too raw to discuss even all those years later.

With time, they settled back into their lives, but as he's gotten older, Dean has heard the whispers around town. Most wonder why John would pursue a business rooted in the thing that took his wife, why he would raise his sons in a garage and on a racetrack. Why would a man spend his life fixing cars when the sight of each one must remind him of what he's lost? Why would a father encourage his children to drive fast cars when their mother died in a fiery crash?

Dean figures it's the same reason he himself doesn't shy away from cars or fast speed. It's somehow vindicating to harness the danger and power that took Mary from them. It's a logic only he and John understand, though Sam tries. He's just more wary, more skeptical of how long their luck will hold out.

Dean stares at his little brother in the loaded silence. He wants to reassure the kid that nothing is going to happen, that nothing bad will ever happen as long as he's around. But he knows he can't promise that. He can only promise one thing.

"I'll come get you."

Sam blinks. "What?"

"If something happens, I'll come get you. You won't be trapped, and you won't be alone." Two of the kid's biggest fears since they had discovered the specifics of their mother's death. "Okay?"

Sam's reaction is mixed – a hint of a smile with a hint of tears.

"Is he happy or upset?" John would sometimes whisper when this occurred, relying on Dean to translate their youngest. The reply would vary depending on the circumstances, but right now...

_He's relieved_, Dean answers to himself and smiles at Sam, hoping his little brother always looks at him like this; like he believes his big brother can do anything.

"Thanks."

"For what? Being awesome?" Dean teases to break the sappy tension.

It works.

Sam snorts and rolls his eyes. "Yeah," is all he says, but Dean hears the rest in the kid's genuine tone.

A comfortable silence settles between them as they watch John lean out his truck's window, handing over entry forms and fees.

The owner counts the money first, then shuffles through the paperwork. He glances at the Impala when he realizes both of John's sons are racing tonight. He waves John forward through the gate and strolls toward the black muscle car.

"I really hate this dick," Dean comments before rolling down the driver's side window to engage in the obligatory chitchat everyone must endure if they want access beyond the fence.

Sam nods. He doesn't know how this man managed to acquire _all_ the local racetracks, but he clearly enjoys having power over the drivers. If they want to race in Lawrence, they have to play by his rules and tolerate his bullshit.

"Hello, boys."

"Crowley," Dean greets, not even trying to hide the disgust in his voice.

Crowley smirks as he focuses on Sam. "So, the squirrel brought his baby moose..."

Dean leans forward, sitting straighter and taller to block Crowley's view of his brother but otherwise doesn't respond. He just sits there, staring at the man who takes joy in being a pain in everyone's ass.

Crowley chuckles. "Did you bring the kid an extra nappy just in case the excitement is too much for him?"

Dean's jaw aches from how tightly he's clenching it, but he still doesn't speak since the last time he mouthed off to Crowley, they were suspended from the racetrack for a month. John had been pissed at the loss of revenue, and Dean doesn't want to hear their dad bitch for another month. So, he keeps his mouth closed and his hands on the steering wheel to prevent himself from accidentally throat punching the sleazy douche standing beside his car.

Crowley chuckles again at Dean's refusal to take the bait. He tilts his head, trying to see Dean's little brother sitting in the passenger seat. "Sammy – "

"Don't call him that," Dean snaps, finally giving Crowley the reaction he wants. "And don't talk to him." The kid already has enough on his mind without being antagonized by a self-important dickhead...and they've already wasted enough time listening to his shit. He glares at the track's owner. "Are we done?"

Crowley's smirk returns, then fades when he spots John walking back toward the entrance; the oldest Winchester coming to investigate what the hell is taking so long for his sons to clear the line.

It's Dean's turn to smirk as John approaches.

"Is there a problem?"

"No problem, Papa Bear," Crowley replies, appearing cool and collected but knowing from experience he does not want to tangle with John Winchester. "Your boys and I were just having a lovely chat."

John maintains his stone-cold stare.

"But we're finished now." Crowley waves the brothers forward. "Have a good race, boys."

Dean wants to flip him off but keeps a firm grip on the steering wheel as he eases the Impala past the gate. "Want a ride?" he asks their dad and stops for John to get in the backseat.

"What was that about?"

"Crowley's a dick."

John agrees with Dean's description, but he feels like something else is going on here. Both of his boys are quiet, exchanging glances like they do when Dean is checking on his little brother and Sam is reassuring Dean he's okay.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean answers even as he meets John's gaze in the rearview, promising he'll explain later.

John nods, trusting that whatever Sam is upset about, Dean has handled.

Dean drives the Impala to their usual spot inside the track and parks beside their dad's truck.

"Alright, boys. Showtime," John announces and hopes the night is one of their best.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby Singer is waiting for them when they pull up – old friend, fellow mechanic, and self-appointed uncle to John's sons. He's wearing a t-shirt that reads _The Man, The Myth, The Legend_, and it would be obnoxious as hell if it wasn't true.

Bobby is a staple in the racing community. When he's not fixing cars or selling parts in the pit, he's on the sidelines supporting his nephews or manning a headset for one of the drivers. He's even been known to announce races and provide commentary during the sports portion of local Newscasts. He _is_ a legend, and Sam is thankful to have him in their lives.

"Hi, Bobby," he greets as he unfolds himself from the passenger side of the Impala and stretches long and tall.

"Hey, squirt," Bobby returns, chuckling when Sam cringes at the childhood nickname that just won't die. He winks at Dean across the Impala's hood before handing Sam one of the headsets he's holding.

Sam accepts with a questioning tilt of his head.

"It's you and me, kid."

"Oh." Sam hates how disappointed he sounds, but he wasn't aware his dad had made arrangements for Bobby to coach him tonight. It makes sense, and he knows he's in excellent hands with Bobby; he's just never had anyone except Dean or John in his ear during a race. What if having a different voice changes things...and _not_ for the better? His earlier anxiety flares even as he swallows and forces a smile. "I mean...great!"

Bobby snorts at the kid trying to put on a brave face. "I know I ain't your brother or your daddy, but you'll fine." He gives a rough pat to Sam's shoulder and nudges him in the direction of the trailer. "Go help unload."

"Yes, sir," Sam says, glancing at Dean as he goes.

Dean smiles long enough for Sam to pass, then lets it drop.

Bobby arches an eyebrow. "Somethin' on your mind?"

Dean steps closer, keeping the conversation between them as he also keeps an eye on Sam. "He's nervous."

"Good," Bobby replies. "I don't know a driver who ain't nervous before a race." He pauses. "Nerves ain't the problem. It's what you _do_ with those nerves..."

"Exactly," Dean agrees. He stands in silence with Bobby as they watch Sam back one of the cars off the trailer. "I'm gonna do what I can on the track to watch out for him." He glances at Bobby. "But I can't see everything out there. I need you to watch out for him, too."

Bobby nods, hearing the big brother loud and clear. "I'll take care of him."

_You better_, Dean implies as he holds Bobby's gaze, then nods in return before walking toward the trailer to help unload the other car and all their gear.

The next hour is a whirlwind as last-minute adjustments are made to both cars, positions are drawn, and strategies are discussed. Dean understands why John and Bobby are keeping him and Sam apart – because neither need the distraction of each other – but he doesn't like it. He can _feel _Sam's nervousness from here and can't stop himself from looking in his little brother's direction every few seconds. Whenever he does, Sam is always staring straight back, and Dean isn't sure how much longer he can resist the urge to –

"Hey!"

Dean blinks at the fingers delivering a sharp snap within inches of his face and scowls at his dad. "What?"

"Focus," John orders, pushing a helmet into Dean's grasp. "We've got a race to win."

"I don't care about winning tonight," Dean says, glancing back at Sam as Bobby helps the kid suit up.

John softens at the concern in his oldest son's voice. "Dean. He'll be fine."

"Yeah, I know," Dean replies because he does. He knows Sam is ready for this. The kid is only 17, but he's proven he can handle himself with the other races he's completed. "I just..." He shakes his head, unsure how to express what he's feeling. "It just feels different tonight."

"It _is_ different," John points out. "Both of my boys are driving."

Dean hears the pride and affection in his dad's tone and turns his attention away from Sam long enough to share a smile with John.

The moment ends when John's expression changes.

"What happened on the drive over? Did he say something?"

Dean knows John is cashing in on his earlier promise to explain what had upset their youngest, but he doesn't want to talk about it now. He doesn't want to think about horrible things happening when they're minutes away from being on the track.

John narrows his eyes as his oldest sighs and stalls with silence. "Dean. Tell me."

Dean rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable with what he's about to reveal. "He talked about Mom."

John pales but doesn't otherwise react. He nods, waiting for Dean to elaborate.

Dean shrugs. "I think you know the rest, Dad."

John nods again and glances at Sam, giving the kid a reassuring smile even as a wound that never healed aches within his chest. He regrets he didn't do a better job of protecting his sons from their own curiosity and wishes he could have shielded them from ever learning the truth about Mary's death.

But he didn't.

Her loss is a scar they all carry, and it's a stab in the heart to think Sam is haunted by it the most. This kid who only knows his mom through the stories he's heard and the photos he's seen. This kid who should be excited about his first big race, not distracted by the possibility of dying the same way his mother did...even though it's a possibility John thinks about every time he straps one of his sons into a race car.

John can feel Dean watching him and clears his throat. He begins to speak but is interrupted by the crackle of the track's speakers as the announcer welcomes the crowd.

After the National Anthem is played, drivers are told to take their positions, setting off a flurry of activity in the pit.

"Alright. Move your ass," John says, thankful for the opportunity to focus on something besides old memories kept in dark places.

Dean snorts at John's transformation from father to driving coach. It will be all business from now until the end of the race.

"Take care of yourself out there."

_And take care of your brother, too. _

It's not said, but Dean hears it as John stares at him.

"Yes sir," Dean replies and crosses to his car, catching a glimpse of Sam sliding into the window of the other car before doing the same. Even though they have strict orders not to talk to each other, Dean flips his headset to Sam's channel.

"Hey, Sammy. What's your starting position?"

"Don't worry about where he's starting," Bobby answers, gruff but teasing. "Just worry about where he's finishing."

Dean smiles at the good-natured jibe. He doesn't care where the kid finishes as long as he finishes in one piece. His smile slips as he listens to his brother breathe fast and shallow. "Sammy..."

"Yeah."

"Relax, man. You got this."

"Damn right he does," Bobby agrees. "Now get the hell off this channel."

Dean laughs and flips to his own channel, not surprised to hear John swearing on the other end. "I'm here, I'm here..." he grumbles, appeasing his father. He grabs his steering wheel and sets it in place, then cranks the car. He revs the engine a few times and checks all the gauges before heading to the starting line.

Sam follows, and as Dean watches his little brother in the rearview, he pushes down the sudden doubt that maybe this isn't a good idea.

What if something _does_ happen? What if Sam crashes, and Dean isn't able to reach him...isn't able to keep his promise to his brother?

"Focus, Dean."

Dean nods at John's voice in his ear. He knows his father is right and releases a measured breath as he tries to do just that.

"Sammy's gonna be fine."

It's rare that John calls Sam by that name, and Dean knows him doing so now is just further testament to John's own worry and second-guessing.

The rumble of engines vibrates the bleachers as the cars idle on the track. Spectators stand in anticipation; most already clapping and yelling in support of their favorite driver as the announcer completes introductions.

A familiar rush of adrenaline floods Dean's system when the flagman climbs to his post above the track.

"Here we go..."

Dean smiles at the anticipation in his dad's voice and flexes his hands on the steering wheel. He can no longer see Sam in the lineup behind him, but he knows the kid is back there. He just hopes between himself and Bobby, they can keep Sam safe.

"Ladies and gentlemen..." the announcer begins, but Dean doesn't hear the rest as the green flag drops.

During the next 20 minutes, the cars battle their way around the oval track, spitting dirt at each other in every turn as they engage in bumper-to-bumper combat.

"This sonuvabitch needs to get _off_ my ass!" Dean growls as #36 acts like a handsy prom date. "If he rubs me again, I'm gonna spin him out."

"Take him in the next turn," John coaches as he paces on the sidelines. "But don't let #19 get ahead. He's coming up fast behind you."

"I see him." Dean guns his engine and makes a practiced jerk of the steering wheel, spinning #36 off the track while also blocking #19 from whatever smooth move he thought he was going to sneak in to take the lead. "Where's Sam?"

"Don't worry about him. Just focus on – "

"Dad..."

John smiles at the interruption and the warning tone. He knows telling Dean not to worry about Sam is like telling his oldest not to breathe. Dean will continue to ask about his little brother until John gives him an update.

"Did something happen to him?"

"No," John assures at the alarm in Dean's voice, realizing Dean interpreted his silence as bad news. "He's fine."

Dean sighs his relief and smiles. "Good. Where is he?"

"He's several cars behind you, but he's holding his own," John replies. He watches Dean steer his car through the next turn, then glances down the track at his youngest. "He just needs to shake #13. Nick the Prick has been riding his ass the entire race."

Dean glares at the mention of their family's biggest rival. Nick usually harasses _him_ on the track, which is fine since Dean welcomes any opportunity to kick Nick's ass...but Sam is off limits.

The kid was already anxious without some asshole rattling his cage.

Dean searches his rearview as he feels a shift within himself – from competitive race car driver to protective big brother.

"What the fuck are you doing?" John demands when it's obvious Dean is slowing down.

Dean doesn't answer, preferring to let his actions do the talking as he drops behind long enough to rub against Nick's side; metal scraping against metal until he spins Nick off the track and away from his little brother.

The crowd gasps at the aggressive maneuver and points at the smoke billowing from #13's hood as the car comes to rest just inside the boundaries of the pit.

"Well, that takes care of that."

Dean twitches a smile at John's dry comment. "No one fucks with Sam, Dad."

John chuckles. "Damn right." He pauses. "Can we get back to winning now?"

Dean laughs. "Hell yes," he agrees and stomps on the gas pedal. He weaves between the other cars, worming his way back to the front while keeping an eye behind him – both for the competition and for Sam.

After another six laps, the race ends and the crowd goes wild when the checkered flag waves over Dean's car.

"Fuck yeah!" John crows through the headset, and Dean can picture his dad celebrating on the sidelines even if he can't see him. At this speed, everything is a blur of colors.

Dean takes his victory lap, hoping he never tires of this feeling or hearing his name echo across the track as the winner.

"That was so awesome!"

Dean blinks at his little brother's voice in his ear. "Sammy?"

Sam laughs at Dean's surprise. "I'm with Dad," he says, explaining why and how he's on the forbidden channel.

Dean nods and smiles, picturing the kid wearing John's headset as he rambles about the race – too excited to wait and talk with his big brother in person. Dean listens, his face hurting from the smile that just won't fade. He knows he should be waving to the clapping fans, but he doesn't care...especially when his biggest fan is talking a mile a minute.

"Sammy..." Dean calls, trying to get the kid to take a breath. "Hey."

"Hey!" Sam returns and waves at Dean from where he's standing between John and Bobby in the winner's circle.

Dean chuckles at his little brother – the only one still wearing a headset because he just couldn't stop talking. He's not talking now, though, as John removes the headset and hands it to Bobby. He ruffles the kid's hair and motions for Dean to join him with Crowley for photos.

Dean grunts at the reminder that he has to smile and pose with that dick, but the big-ass check makes it more tolerable. He climbs out of his car window and takes off his helmet; his smile returning when he looks at Sam. Bobby's arm is slung over the kid's shoulders, and they both look so happy.

"While we're still young, Winchester..."

Dean glares at Crowley's attempt to rush him through this moment. "Only some of us are," he answers, trading snark for snark as he approaches.

Crowley smirks.

John welcomes his son with a hug. "I'm damn proud of you."

Dean nods at the whispered words and feels damn proud of himself as he stands there with his dad's hand on his shoulder and his little brother beaming at him. Photos are snapped, handshakes are swapped, and the crowd begins to disperse.

Back in the pit, Sam is still ecstatic about his big brother's latest win, but for once, the money and the crowd's reaction is not the best part of Dean's night. What makes him happiest is seeing Sam safe and sound, grinning with those dimples and that dirty face and his hair every-which-way from the helmet and sweat. _That's_ what matters to Dean – seeing his little brother unscathed after what proved to be one hell of a race.

Maintaining his top position while also running interference for Sam was more challenging than Dean expected, but he already can't wait to do it again.

Sam runs to greet him as Dean eases his car to a stop beside their trailer, and he's barely out of the window before Sam is tackling him in a hug.

"Congrats, man!"

"Thanks," Dean replies and hugs the kid back.

"You were so awesome!" Sam gushes, pushing away from Dean. "So, _so_ awesome! I mean...the way you handled Nick...and the way you rubbed that other guy out of the way..."

Dean shrugs like it's not a big deal as he sets his helmet on top of his car. "Rubbing is racing."

Sam nods. It's a saying he's heard his whole life, both from his family and other drivers. He's seen his brother do it multiple times but to actually be out there when it happened, to be part of it – _that_ was amazing!

"Dean's right," John says, joining his boys at the trailer. "Rubbing _is_ racing, but it takes practice." He points a warning finger at his youngest. "So, don't get any ideas."

"Dad's right."

Sam glances at Dean, wondering if his dad and brother realize how often they back each other up when they're talking about his safety.

"You're not ready for any track maneuvers," Dean continues. "You just need to keep the car going straight for now. The rest will come later."

"Exactly," John agrees, then gestures at all the equipment scattered around their trailer. "Let's pack up and head home. It's a school night."

Sam wrinkles his nose at the reminder and wanders toward his car to start gathering tools.

"It's also past dinnertime."

John quirks a smile at Dean's comment, knowing his oldest is more concerned about his brother than himself. Ever since he was a kid, Dean has always been a warden about making sure Sam is fed on schedule.

"Did you hear me?"

John snorts. "Yeah. I heard you. And don't worry – we'll feed the baby."

Dean rolls his eyes at the teasing. "I'm serious, Dad. Sammy needs to eat."

"Me, too," Bobby says, joining them at the trailer after lingering in the winner's circle to talk with other drivers. "A race like that works up an appetite." He focuses on Sam as the kid approaches with an armful of gear. "I'm proud of you, squirt."

Sam smiles at the praise even though he wishes that nickname would never be uttered again.

"We made one hell of a team out there."

"You did," John affirms, ignoring the hint of jealousy that flares. He knows he can't coach both of his sons at the same time during the same race...but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting to see someone else taking his place with his youngest. "Thank you."

Sam and Dean echo their father's gratitude, but Bobby waves them off.

"Happy to help," he assures. "I'd do anything for this kiddo." He rubs a rough hand through Sam's hair. "And this one, too," he adds, doing the same to Dean.

Both brothers duck away with playful scowls, earning a chuckle from their Uncle Bobby.

After their cars and all their gear is loaded, it's almost 9:30, and John knows Sam must be starving.

"Who's hungry?"

"I am!" Sam answers, his quick response confirming John's suspicion. "Are we heading to – "

"Hell yes," Dean replies. It's tradition at this point – they always go to their favorite burger joint after a win. "Cheeseburger and onion rings with a chocolate shake?"

Sam nods like Dean is speaking his love language and practically runs to the Impala.

Dean shakes his head with a fond smile and follows.

John glances at Bobby, tilting his head toward the older man's truck. "You coming?"

"Right behind you," Bobby answers and climbs into his pickup, following John and his sons across town.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 4

Over the next few weeks, Winchester and Sons makes a more permanent mark on the Douglas County racing circuit. In fact, everyone in town knows both of John's boys race, his oldest usually wins, and the three of them always celebrate with dinner at The Roadhouse. Even the burger joint's business booms as fans flock there after each race, eager to interact with the Winning Winchesters – a phrase coined by Lawrence newspapers and sportscasters.

Bobby joins the family wherever they go and adds to their local celebrity status by continuing to devote his time and attention to Sam, which sparks a rumor that maybe John's _youngest_ is the one to watch since The Legend himself clearly sees something in the kid.

Sam scoffs at the question when a reporter asks him about it before a race. "It's nice that people think that, but I don't see it." He glances at Dean standing beside him. "I don't think I'll ever be a better driver than this guy." He knocks his shoulder against his brother's and gives the camera a dimpled smile. "I'm just thankful for the opportunity to race and spend time with him and our dad."

The way the 30-something reporter stares at Sam after his response makes Dean want to remind her the kid is only 17-years old.

_Alright, lady. Back the fuck off_, he thinks as Sam shifts closer to him – a sure sign his little brother is uneasy.

But the reporter misses Sam's signal...and Dean's glare.

"Well, with an answer like that, I guess we know at least one rumor is true..." She pauses with a smile that's too flirty for Dean's liking. "You_ are_ a sweetheart. And a cutie."

Sam gives a nervous laugh and edges even closer to his big brother. He's not unaccustomed to female advances – especially now that he's achieved the rank of race car driver – but those advances don't usually come from someone twice his age or happen on live TV. His cheeks burn with embarrassment as he clears his throat and brushes his bangs from his face.

The signs of an uncomfortable little brother just keep adding up, and Dean is about two seconds from telling this woman where she can stick her microphone when Sam finds his voice.

"Um...thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, my. Good looks _and_ good manners," the reporter purrs, stroking Sam's arm, and Dean is done.

"It runs in the family. At least the good looks part..." he tells her, stepping in front of his kid to shield him from this woman with no concept of boundaries and personal space. He doesn't want to embarrass Sam even more by causing a scene, but enough is enough.

There's an awkward silence as the reporter finally receives Dean's message to back the fuck off and keep her hands to herself. She nods and smiles, trying to defuse the situation since she knows the rumors about this one, too.

Sam's older brother is indeed easy on the eyes, but that's where their similarities end. Dean does not have a reputation for being sweet or well-mannered. His personality is more abrasive, more confrontational. Not only does he kick ass on the racetrack, but he's been known to _actually_ kick people's asses. She knows of at least two fistfights that Dean didn't start, but he sure as hell finished. His opponents limped around town for weeks with black eyes and busted lips.

The reporter's smile wavers as Dean continues to stare at her. She's unnerved by the intensity of his gaze, yet she can't help but notice his eyes are gorgeous even when he's pissed.

"Are we done?"

It's phrased as a question...but it's not a question. Dean Winchester is already leading his little brother away from the lights and the camera and _her_.

"Yes, of course," she replies, desperate to salvage her live interview. "After all, you have a race to run."

"To win," Dean corrects over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. He follows Sam back to their trailer and shakes his head in disgust when their dad looks up from where he's leaning under the hood of Dean's car. "Un-fucking-believable…"

John blinks at the comment, then stands to his full height as he assesses his sons – a pissed Dean and a quiet Sam. The combination can result from several different scenarios. None of them good.

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing. Just another cougar encounter."

John snorts at Dean's tone, though it's clear his oldest is not amused...which means this time the cougar set her sights on Sam. "Comes with the territory, boys..." he reminds, well aware of the attention a race car driver can attract whether or not he wants it. He tugs a rag from his back pocket and wipes the grease from his hands as he gives his youngest a once-over. The kid _does_ look a little shell-shocked. "You okay?"

"Yes, sir," Sam answers. "It was just...weird."

"It was out of line," Dean rants. "If she wanted to hit on me, fine. But a grown-ass woman shouldn't come on to a kid."

_Especially_ your _kid_, John thinks with a hint of a smile because he knows that's how Dean views Sam – part little brother, part his kid.

That's what happens when a four-year old helps raise a baby after their mother dies; roles blur and attachments become soul deep.

Sam sighs. "Can we talk about something else?"

"Like what?" Bobby asks, rounding the corner of the trailer and joining their conversation. "Like how you boys are gonna kick ass on the track tonight?"

Sam smiles. "Bobby! You made it!"

"Finally," Bobby replies with an irritated growl. "Traffic was a bitch. I leave the house five minutes later than usual and end up 30 minutes late."

Sam shrugs. "It's fine. I'm just glad you're here."

"Wouldn't miss it, squirt. Somebody's gotta coach you around the track tonight, and I don't think your daddy can wear two headsets."

"I was gonna try," John admits, thankful they don't have to resort to Plan B. He knows friends from other racing crews would step up if he asked, but he doesn't trust just anyone with his youngest. Whoever is in Sam's ear needs to be the perfect blend of firm and gentle, and Bobby Singer has mastered that balance.

"You're right. I'm awesome," Bobby agrees as if he can read John's thoughts.

John chuckles. "Sometimes," he allows. "But most of the time, you're a pain in the ass."

"Likewise."

John chuckles again, remembering when Mary once asked why men prefer to trade insults with their friends instead of just confessing what they mean to each other.

"That _is_ what we're saying," he had told her.

Mary had rolled her eyes with a doubtful hum before smiling and kissing him.

She was always kissing him; always supporting him and loving him.

He misses those days.

He misses_ her_.

John's smile fades, then brightens as he watches the two people Mary left behind to make his life still worth living even after she was gone – his sons.

Sam and Dean blink in perfect sync before speaking in unison. "What?"

John doesn't have the words to tell them how much he loves them or how much he loved their mother...and if he did, he probably wouldn't. Now is not the time or place for sappy speeches, so he does what he usually does whenever he feels emotional – he changes the subject; though this time he does it without saying a word as he tilts his head toward one car, then the other.

Sam wrinkles his nose. The forced separation before a race is expected at this point, but it hasn't become any easier. He glances at Dean. "I hate this part."

Dean nods at the whispered words. "Me too, Sammy." He smiles and ruffles the kid's hair. "But I'll see you later...on the track...in my rearview."

Sam returns the smile because he knows Dean is teasing, but his words sting. It sucks to be reminded he always finishes behind his big brother.

Dean watches him, narrowing his eyes like he senses he struck a nerve, but Sam shakes his head, dismissing his brother's concern the best way he knows how.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

"Boys..."

Both brothers smirk at John's warning tone as Bobby snorts.

"C'mon, squirt..." he calls, motioning for Sam to follow.

Sam further reassures Dean he's fine by landing a playful punch to Dean's shoulder before turning to join Bobby on the other side of their trailer.

An hour later, the brothers are in their cars and on the track, waiting for the green flag to drop. The announcer has completed introductions and is entertaining the crowd with racing lingo trivia as they wait for the flagman and other officials to take their positions.

Standing on the sidelines with his arms crossed over his chest, Bobby listens to Sam breathe over the headset. The kid had seemed fine when he had first arrived in the pit, but the youngest Winchester has been withdrawn and moody ever since he separated from Dean.

Part of Bobby – the part that believes in unicorns – thinks there's nothing to worry about. Sam _is_ a teenager, and teenagers have mood swings for no apparent reason. But the other part of Bobby – the part that lives in the real world – knows something is wrong. Sam doesn't usually shut down unless something is bothering him.

Bobby scratches his beard, trying to decide if he should poke the proverbial bear...or in this case, the bear cub. He twitches a smile at the thought, then sobers because this is serious. Sam has managed to finish every race without incident, but he's still a rookie. He's still the least experienced driver on the track and needs to be focused with a clear head, not distracted by whatever he's brooding about.

Bobby nods in agreement with himself and adjusts his mouthpiece to start the delicate process of unraveling a mystery. "Hey, squirt. You okay out there?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Bobby shakes his head; a fond smile tugging at his lips for this kid who can't lie worth a damn. "Sammy..." he says, only using the nickname when he wants to soften the kid's defenses. "You're gonna hafta get better at lyin', son, if you want to slip one past me."

Sam huffs a soft, reluctant laugh, and Bobby knows this is his opening. This is his chance to push for more.

"Listen, kiddo..." he begins, keeping an eye on the flagman's post. "It's just you and me on this channel, so let's cut the bullshit. Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's really wrong," Sam replies, though his tone is unconvincing. "I just..."

Bobby waits for him to finish.

"I don't know."

"I think you do," Bobby counters. "You just don't wanna say it."

"Yeah. I mean...I guess."

The confused uncertainty in the kid's voice only adds to Bobby's concern. "C'mon, squirt. Lay it on me. Uncle Bobby is listening."

Sam hums an amused sound, then sighs. "I don't think you're gonna like it. I know Dean wouldn't. Or Dad."

"Try me."

Sam sighs again; the released breath loud and harsh over the headset.

Bobby arches an eyebrow, wondering what the hell this kid has on his mind that he can't just spit out. "Sam, just say – "

"I want to start rubbing."

Bobby blinks at the unexpected statement but resists the urge to immediately refuse since doing so would only cause Sam to retreat in silence.

"Bobby?"

"I heard you," Bobby replies as he continues to watch the flagman's post. "I'm just wonderin' why."

"Why not? Dean does it."

Bobby smiles, wondering if this little brother will ever stop trying to be like his big brother. "He didn't do it three weeks into his racing career." He pauses, letting the kid think about that. "Becoming a seasoned driver takes time, Sam. Give it time. Give _yourself_ time."

Sam doesn't respond, and Bobby can't tell if he's pouting or processing. If he could see the kid, he would know, but –

"I don't want to finish last all the time."

The confession breaks Bobby's heart. Only this kid can do that.

"I want to stand up for myself on the track and get ahead. I want to make Dad proud like Dean does. I want..." Sam takes a shaky breath. "I want to make _Dean _proud."

"Sam. They _are_ proud," Bobby tells him, needing the kid to believe those words. "You hear me? It doesn't matter where you finish. Whether it's first or last or anywhere in between, your brother and your daddy are damn proud of you. And so am I."

"Thanks for saying that, but..." Sam sighs once more. "You're just being nice, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby pulls a face. "Since when am I nice? I'm the grouchy old bastard, remember?" He can hear Sam smile at that, and he wishes he could give the kid a hug. "Listen, squirt..." he says, knowing they need to wrap up the conversation since he can see the flagman unfurling the green fabric as he speaks. "I understand what you're sayin'. You wanna stretch your legs on the track, and there's nothin' wrong with that. Rubbin' _is_ racin', and all good drivers know how to do it. I'm just askin' you to wait. Wait until we can discuss it with your brother and daddy. Wait until we can get you on a test track to practice. 'Cause trust me – if you rush this, it ain't gonna end pretty."

"I know," Sam admits. "Dad and Dean would be _so_ pissed."

"That's an understatement," Bobby points out, unsure if there's even a word to describe how angry the older Winchesters would be if their youngest tried something dangerous and stupid on the track. "And don't forget about me."

"I know," Sam repeats. "You'd be pissed, too."

"Another understatement," Bobby replies. "But Sam...I ain't talkin' about that. If you try to pull off a maneuver without practicin' first, you could end up hurt or..." He pauses, hesitant to add the second part of his warning because he knows how sensitive Sam is about the way Mary died...but the kid needs to hear it. "Dead."

Sam doesn't make a sound for several seconds. Bobby can't even hear him breathing.

"Sam."

"I understand."

Sam's detached tone is like a punch to the gut. Bobby didn't want to upset the kid before a race, but dammit – it had to be said. "I don't want anything to happen to you, squirt. And I know _you_ don't want anything to happen to someone else because of somethin' you did."

"No, sir," Sam agrees, and Bobby can tell the possibility of hurting others made a bigger impact on the kid than the likelihood of being injured himself.

But Bobby also knows Sam is stubborn. If he's made up his mind to do something, he's going to do it. Consequences be damned.

The reality of that truth is enough to make Bobby want to pull Sam from the race or at least switch over to John and Dean's channel to see if they can talk some sense into their youngest. But it's already too late for either option. The flagman is lifting the green flag as Bobby speaks.

"Sam. Tell me we've got a deal. No rubbin' tonight."

He knows Sam heard him, but the kid doesn't answer as the flag drops and the race begins.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

"What the hell is going on out there?"

Bobby scowls at the voice crackling over the two-way radio clipped to his belt – the one he and John use to talk with each other during races. Dean has teased them about having adult conversations away from the kids, and it's partly true. They do discuss issues they'd rather the boys not hear...like how shitty Sam is driving tonight.

Bobby knows that's what John is yelling about. They're three laps into the race, and the kid is all over the track. Bobby can tell Sam wants to make a move, but he doesn't know how. He keeps drifting from lane to lane, trying to figure it out as he goes.

It's stupid and dangerous, and Bobby has told him so...though he might as well have been talking to himself since Sam has ignored all attempts to communicate over the headset.

John, on the other hand, won't shut up.

"Bobby!"

"What?" Bobby growls, switching the headset to mute so Sam can't hear them talking, but he can still hear Sam in case the kid decides to get chatty.

"What the hell is going on?" John demands. "Sam's driving like a fuckin' maniac!"

It's an accurate description.

"Is he drunk?"

Bobby snorts at the ridiculous question, though it speaks to how erratic Sam is driving if that's the comparison John is making. "No. He's fine."

"Don't bullshit me, Singer!" John snaps. "He's not fine, and if something is going on with my kid, I damn well want to know about it."

It's a classic response from a worried dad. John could argue he deserves to know what his youngest is thinking...but Sam deserves to know he can trust Bobby with anything – including dumbass ideas.

"Bobby!"

"John. You handle your driver, and I'll handle mine," Bobby says before turning off the radio and switching his headset back on.

He can picture John bitching on the other end of the track, but he has more important, more immediate concerns...like whatever maneuver Sam is trying to set up in this next turn.

"Shit," Bobby hisses and jogs along the sidelines, angling for a better view. "Sam. Don't you fuckin' dare..." he warns when he can see the kid is preparing to rub against Nick.

Like every other race, #13 has made it his mission not to win but to antagonize Sam. From the moment the green flag dropped, Nick has chased the kid all over the track and now has him where he wants him – trapped between himself and the wall. Sam has nowhere to go unless he spins Nick out...or waits for Dean to do it.

_I want to stand up for myself on the track. _

Bobby can still hear Sam saying those words and knows he's about to witness the kid's misguided effort to prove he doesn't always need his big brother to rescue him.

"Sam..."

"Don't worry, Uncle Bobby," Sam says, breaking his silence with a nervous but hopeful reassurance. "I can do this. I've watched Dean a million times."

"Well, la-dee-fuckin'-da..."

Bobby blinks at Dean's voice in his ear...which means Dean has switched to their channel.

"That doesn't mean shit, Sam. Just because you've seen me do a maneuver doesn't mean you can do it. That's not how it works."

"Dean's right."

Bobby blinks again as John's voice joins the mix. So much for keeping the channels separate. The gang's all here.

"You need to pick a lane and chill the fuck out," Dean tells his brother, dropping back as he speaks.

Sam grunts his frustration. "Nick picked one for me," he replies, still trapped between #13 and the wall as the cars make another lap.

"I know. I'm coming."

"No!"

"Sam..." John begins, his voice icy over the headset. "I don't know what the hell has gotten into you, but we don't have time for this shit. When Dean spins Nick out, take your ass back to the pit and wait. You're parked until you explain what the hell is going on."

Bobby shakes his head as he listens. He understands John's reaction because he knows it's rooted in concern over Sam's uncharacteristic behavior...but he also knows it's the wrong way to handle this situation.

Sam is quiet again, but his silence is not submission. It's defiance. If John is already angry with him...if he's already out of the race, then he's leaving on _his_ terms. He has nothing to lose now except his own dignity and the respect of other drivers if he forfeits the race without pushing back against Nick.

"You hear me?" John asks, and Bobby knows from the urgency in his tone that John sees what he sees – Sam setting up a second chance to rub #13 in the upcoming turn.

"Yes, sir," Sam answers, admitting what he's about to do is intentional.

It's the last thing he says before jerking his car to the left, slamming into Nick. Nick's car spins toward the center of the track, clipping Dean's car as it goes.

"Fuck!" Dean yells, trying to regain control as his car makes two complete circles before stalling out and coming to rest in the path of a dozen other cars running maximum speed. The drivers do their best to dodge him, but he's facing the wrong way, and the track is narrow. He's clipped several more times with the final blow pushing him into the muddy field at the far end of the pit.

The crowd erupts in gasps as the yellow flag waves over the track. Everyone is on their feet, trying to see the damage to Nick and Dean's cars while the announcer hypes the biggest upset of the season.

"And just like that, Dean Winchester is out! He is _out_ of the race! His winning streak is _over_ as little brother takes...him..._out_! Holy – " The announcer catches himself before he swears over the microphone and chuckles at the close call. "Welcome to live entertainment, folks – where anything can happen."

The fans buzz with excitement and shock over the drama of brother versus brother as rescue vehicles and tow trucks make their way to the crumpled cars sitting within inches of each other.

"Dean!"

"I'm fine," Dean replies, soothing the panic in the three voices that call his name over the headset. "I'm _pissed..._but I'm fine."

"Dean. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm – "

"Shut up, Sam."

Bobby winces at the venom in Dean's tone. John's oldest is understandably livid, but his cool dismissal will only add to Sam's overwhelming guilt.

Dean groans as he climbs out of his car window.

"Are you hurt?"

"No," Dean replies, waving off John's concern. "Just sore."

_Wait until tomorrow..._ Bobby thinks, knowing the day _after _a wreck is often the worst as the pain initially masked by adrenaline begins to emerge. He knows there will be bruises across Dean's shoulders and chest from the harness, not to mention the full-body ache that results from being banged around inside a car by other cars.

"Are you sure?" John pushes. "You were hit pretty hard."

"I'm fine," Dean says, his short responses further testifying to his anger. "Dad..."

"I'm almost there," John assures, his fast breaths reflecting his rush. "Just stay with the car. And stay away from Nick. The last thing we need tonight is you two throwing punches..."

Bobby nods in agreement, splitting his attention between Dean standing beside his car holding his helmet, John running down the sidelines, and Sam still making slow laps around the track with the other cars as they wait for the wreck to clear.

John notices his youngest as well. "Sam."

That's all it takes. With just one word, John orders his son off the track _right fucking now_.

Sam doesn't dare speak, and Bobby can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the kid as he steers his car toward their trailer. As usual, Sam's intentions were good...but the outcome wasn't what he planned. No one can blame the kid for wanting to assert himself against a bully or get out of his big brother's shadow; he just wasn't ready for either challenge.

Bobby sighs and heads back to the pit, wishing he could have convinced Sam to wait...and wishing he could protect him from the fallout that's coming.

"Bobby."

"Yep."

The two-word exchange over the headset is an entire conversation – John asking Bobby to take care of Sam while he takes care of Dean...and Bobby letting John know he's already on his way.

Nothing else is said, and Bobby removes his headset as he approaches the pit.

Sam is pacing beside their trailer, only stopping when he sees Bobby standing there. He blinks, trying to ward off threatening tears. "I fucked up."

"Yeah. You did."

"Now Dean is pissed. And Dad..." Sam shakes his head like he's not sure which is worse. He stares at Bobby. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are," Bobby tells him. "But sorry don't fix this, Sam."

"I know." Sam looks away, unable to bear the disappointment and quiet anger in Bobby's expression. He takes a shaky breath, pulling himself together before he turns back. "Is Dean hurt?"

Bobby knows Sam heard his brother say he was fine, but he also knows the kid is scared. His eyes are wide and panicked, and there's a slight tremor in his arms and hands as he stares at Bobby again.

"I don't think so," Bobby replies. "His car, on the other hand..."

"I know. I saw it."

Bobby nods, figuring Sam got an up-close view of the damage as he drove by the wreck with every lap.

"Are they going to kill me?"

Bobby snorts. The kid sounds and looks so serious. It's with good reason since the situation _is_ serious, but it's not the end of the world. Sam is fine, and Dean is fine. Everything else can be fixed. The car can be repaired, and any dings to their reputation will be forgotten in a few weeks. They'll come back from this night – both as a family and as a business – stronger and better than ever. But in the meantime, Bobby can't take this kid staring at him with those big, misty eyes.

"They are," Sam concludes, assuming Bobby's silence is proof of his imminent demise. He sits on the hood of his car, resolved to his fate. "They're going to kill me."

Bobby chuckles. "Nah. I won't let 'em, squirt."

The nickname and hint of affection in Bobby's tone causes Sam to lose it. He ducks his head, knowing he doesn't deserve to cry when _he's_ the one who caused this mess.

Bobby watches him, wondering how this kid became his soft spot. He loves both of John's sons, but this one...

He sighs and crosses to the car, sitting beside Sam on the hood and squeezing the back of his neck in comfort and solidarity.

They sit there, shoulder-to-shoulder, for several minutes until Bobby's headset crackles to life with John calling his name.

"Yeah," Bobby answers, putting the device back on and adjusting the mouthpiece. He listens, then nods. "I'm coming." He glances at Sam. "They need help clearing the wreck. Something about the drive shaft and the rear axle..." He shrugs since John didn't elaborate and gives a rough pat to Sam's back. "Stay here and out of trouble."

Sam twitches a watery smile. "Yes, sir."

"And start cleaning up. Your daddy's gonna wanna get the hell outa here when he finally gets Dean's car out of the mud."

Sam nods and stands as Bobby leaves. He spends at least half an hour collecting tools, trying not to think about what will happen when John and Dean return. What will he say when they're face-to-face? How can he ever apologize enough for _this_? Not only did he disobey a direct order from his dad, but he spun his brother off the track. He single-handedly ruined Dean's winning streak, costing their family money and tarnishing their reputation.

Sam sighs and spends another half hour loading most of their gear; the dread in his stomach becoming heavier with every minute that ticks by since he knows it shouldn't take this long to haul a car back to the pit. The delay implies Dean's car is damaged even worse than he thought, and he swallows against the urge to throw up.

Ten minutes later, Sam hears the rumble of a tow truck and bites his lip as he watches it creep closer, dragging #13 back to its trailer. He can see Nick fuming in the passenger seat and quickly turns, hoping Nick doesn't see_ him_.

He's not that lucky.

The tow truck's squealing brakes is Sam's only warning before Nick is out and in his face.

"What the fuck, Winchester?" he yells, shoving Sam backwards. "If you're gonna play with the big boys, you better know what the fuck you're doing instead of playing bumper cars like a fuckin' kid!" He shoves Sam again. "Look!" He points to his mangled car hitched to the back of the tow truck. "You fuckin' totaled it, you little shit!" He shoves Sam once more, aggressive and _pissed_.

Sam stumbles and almost falls, steadied only by Dean's supporting hand on his arm. He has no idea where his brother came from, but he's glad Dean is there to stop Nick from kicking his ass.

"Touch him again," Dean says, cool and calm, but Sam recognizes that tone. His brother is not fucking around. He may be pissed with Sam, but he's still Sam's big brother. He's still Sam's protector and no one touches him – especially not the way Nick just did.

Nick snorts as Dean shifts Sam to stand behind him. "This is so fuckin' typical. You defending him when the little shit almost got us both killed."

Dean blinks at Nick like he's overreacting. "Relax. No one's dead."

"Except your mom."

The words are barely out of Nick's mouth when John punches him in the face.

Sam startles, having no idea their dad was even back in the pit much less close enough to hear what's being said. He takes a quick glance around, noticing Bobby is there, too – standing behind John like he's ready to throw down.

Dean smirks and steps more squarely in front of Sam, further shielding his little brother in case this erupts in an actual fistfight.

Nick rubs his jaw, glaring at John.

John stares at him with a blank, emotionless expression. He looks dangerous as he speaks with the same cool, calm tone Dean used earlier. "Don't touch my sons. Don't talk about my wife. And don't fuck with me."

Sam watches, wide-eyed. He's never seen his dad _this_ badass.

Nick continues to glare, weighing his options, but John is done, deciding this piece of shit isn't worth another second of his time or attention.

"Now fuck off," he orders, standing his ground until Nick retreats to the tow truck and heads back to his trailer with the twisted metal that used to be his car.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Nick leaves, a crowd has gathered to gawk at the unfolding scene. Nick's departure should signal the show is over, but the audience doesn't disperse. They linger, eager for Act II – the confrontation between the brothers.

They don't have to wait long.

Once Nick is gone, Dean rounds on Sam with an intensity that makes the spectators squirm. "What the fuck?"

It's the same question Nick hurled in his face, but the words cut deeper coming from Dean. Sam wishes he had an explanation. He wishes he could explain how and why rubbing without practice seemed like a good idea, but he knows it doesn't matter now. Anything he says will sound stupid because _he_ was stupid. He was stupid and reckless and could have cost his brother more than just a destroyed car.

Sam glances at the vehicle still hooked behind the tow truck, taking in the extent of the damage – the shattered windshield, the cracked fender, the busted bumper, the crushed quarter panel. The car looks like it went to battle with a bulldozer...and lost.

"Answer me!" Dean yells, irritated by Sam's silence.

Sam shakes his head because he doesn't know what to say, and if he tried to speak, he would probably cry.

John can see the rage building in his oldest and isn't surprised when Dean explodes, shoving Sam backwards like Nick did.

"Enough."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Dean seethes, turning to face his dad.

John glares at the public challenge. He understands Dean's reaction, but there's zero tolerance for back talking or acting out in anger against their youngest. While the boys roughhouse all the time, this is different; Dean is not playing. He could hurt Sam without even trying, and that's an extra layer of drama they don't need tonight.

"You're letting him off the hook?" Dean asks, his tone both accusing and incredulous. "Are you serious? After the shit he just pulled?"

John stares at his son, wondering if Dean has forgotten the _don't fuck with me_ rule applies to him, too. "Enough," he repeats, quiet but no less threatening. He holds Dean's gaze, though his next words are meant for both boys. "Trailer. Now."

Sam darts inside the enclosure, thankful for a hiding place, but Dean doesn't move.

"Both of you," John clarifies when it seems his oldest doesn't think the order includes him.

Dean mutters something under his breath, then disappears inside the trailer.

John's gaze sweeps over the crowd of onlookers, daring them to speak or stick around.

No one does.

Within a few seconds, John and Bobby are alone.

"I need a drink."

Bobby snorts. "That makes two of us."

John rubs his hand over his face and sighs. It had already been one hell of a night, but before he can resolve the rift between his boys, he needs to know what everyone else has been asking – what the fuck? Why would Sam risk _his_ safety and _their_ reputation with such irresponsible behavior? What made him think he could pull off a rub without practicing? In what world did that _not_ end in disaster?

Sam had refused to answer, but John knows his youngest confides in Bobby. If anyone understands why the kid did what he did, it's the old man staring at him.

"Well..."

Bobby recognizes John's expectant tone and knows that's his cue to confess what Sam wouldn't. He shrugs. "There ain't much to tell. He just wants to make you and Dean proud."

John pulls a face at the implication that Sam is a disappointment. Nothing could be further from the truth. "He _does _make us proud."

Bobby nods. "I know that. And you know that. But Sam ain't so sure. He figures it's hard to be proud of somebody who finishes last all the time."

John shakes his head, at a loss for words. He wants to hold on to his anger, but it's damn near impossible after a revelation like this. While he was pissed earlier at Sam's cocky recklessness on the track, he knows that's not his son's nature; his youngest is usually more cautious behind the wheel. It's both maddening and heartbreaking to realize Sam put himself and everyone else in danger tonight because he thought he had something to prove.

"This kid..."

Bobby smiles at the love and exasperation in those two words.

"When did you know?"

"Right before the flag dropped."

"What did you say?"

"I told him to wait. But you know how he gets..."

"Yeah. Stubborn as hell."

"Like father, like son."

John twitches a smile. "Guess so," he concedes and runs his fingers through his hair, feeling the snag and sting of torn skin. He looks at the dried blood across his cracked knuckles and wishes he had punched Nick twice – once for what he said about Mary, then once more for manhandling his kid. "Where does Nick fit into all of this?"

Bobby shrugs like it should be obvious. "Sam wanted to rub. Nick gave him the opportunity."

"But Nick is always up Sam's ass," John points out. "And Dean always takes care of it."

"He does," Bobby agrees. "And Sam appreciates it. But there comes a time when a man wants to take care of things himself." He pauses. "We think of Sam as a kid because he's _our_ kid, but he's growin' up, John. He wants to stand up for himself."

"I get that," John admits. "I just wish he would've told me. I wish we could've talked about it and he could've practiced instead of going off half-cocked during a race and causing this cluster."

Bobby follows John's gaze to Dean's wrecked car.

"You know..." John begins after a beat of silence. "Every time there's a crash out there, I think about Mary. I think about how she probably would've lived if they could've just gotten her out of the fuckin' car." He continues to stare at the mangled mess behind the tow truck. "That's what I thought about tonight. That's where my mind went."

_Of course it did_, Bobby thinks because that's where his mind went, too.

"I couldn't _breathe_ until I saw Dean get out."

"Same here," Bobby says. "But you heard the EMTs – Dean's fine. Just bruised and sore."

"And pissed," John adds, glancing at the trailer. Neither of his sons have made a sound since they entered.

"What's your bet?" Bobby asks. "Silent treatment?"

John nods, figuring his boys are locked in a silent standoff with Dean being too angry to speak and Sam too afraid.

"May the force be with you," Bobby quips as John turns to face his challenge.

John huffs a laugh. "And with you…" he replies, gesturing at the wrecked car and knowing Bobby will take care of that while he takes care of this. He sighs, gathering strength and patience before entering the trailer and pulling the door shut behind him.

As expected, his boys are at opposite ends – Dean stewing in his rage while Sam looks like a kicked puppy. John watches the kid standing there with his arms wrapped around himself and wonders if his heart will ever be immune to the distressed expression his youngest has mastered so well.

When Sam steps toward him, John notices his eyes are red – a sure sign he's cried at some point. The realization softens John's heart even more, especially considering what he knows now about Sam's motives.

Sam bites his lip, eager to apologize but uncertain how to read John's silence. "Dad?"

John nods, encouraging his son to continue.

Sam still hesitates as he glances at Dean. He had prepared an entire speech to grovel for their forgiveness, but it seems pointless when all he really wants to say is –

"I'm sorry."

Dean snorts, dismissive and cruel. "Go fuck yourself, Sam."

The sharp response is meant to wound, and Sam flinches as the words hit their mark.

John narrows his eyes. "Dean..."

"What?" Dean demands. "If I pulled the shit he pulled tonight, you'd be tearing me a new one right now."

"I still might if you don't shut the fuck up."

Dean scowls, though he knows he's crossed a line. He doesn't want to hurt Sam. He just...

"Go help Bobby with your car."

Dean blinks, speechless at the injustice. He glances at Sam, then back to John. "So, let me get this straight – _he_ makes the fuckin' mess, but _I_ have to clean it up?" He shakes his head. "That's bullshit, Dad!" He glances again at Sam, though the kid refuses to make eye contact. "It must be nice to get away with doing stupid shit."

"You've done plenty of stupid shit," John reminds and tilts his head toward the door.

Dean knows it's his last warning to leave. He growls his frustration, smacking the back of Sam's head as he goes.

Sam grunts at the swat but doesn't retaliate. He just stands there, his eyes misting.

Neither reaction is unexpected. It's the yin and yang of his sons – Dean the physical one, Sam the emotional one. Since they react differently in the same situation, John has learned to deal with them differently. Dean responds to blunt words and tough love whereas handling Sam takes more finesse than John naturally has. He's more aware of his tone and overall demeanor when he's with his youngest, knowing Mary would be proud of his efforts. Even when Sam was still an infant, she knew he required a gentler touch.

"Slow and easy," she would often say, reminding John that while their first-born was a ball of noise and activity, Sam was quieter and calmer – preferring to be held and rocked rather than bounced or chased.

The same is true now.

John knows he'll get further with this conversation if he takes it slow and easy. He sighs, giving Sam a once-over as the kid stares at him. He doesn't see any blood or cuts, but first things first...

"Are you hurt?"

Sam's already misty eyes well with tears. No one else had asked him that – not Bobby or even Dean.

John frowns, his heart beating faster at the possibility of his kid hiding an injury this entire time while everyone was too busy yelling at him to notice. "Sammy..."

"I'm okay," Sam assures, hearing the concern in John's rare use of his nickname. "I'm not hurt."

"You sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." John pauses. "But you could've been."

"I know."

"And Dean could've been."

Sam's eyes widen. "But he's not, right? He's okay?"

John doesn't answer, taking a moment to consider how he wants to lead the conversation.

Sam steps forward. "Dad?"

"He's a little banged up, but he's fine," John replies, deciding to reveal something Sam probably doesn't realize about his brother's reaction. "You just scared him tonight."

Sam pulls a face, managing to look both skeptical and offended. "Dean doesn't get scared."

_Spoken like a true little brother_, John thinks and smiles. "Not usually," he agrees. "But there _is_ one exception – you." He pauses once more, allowing the weight of that truth to sink in. "Dean is terrified of something happening to you, Sam. We both are."

Sam stares at him, overwhelmed and quiet.

"What you did tonight was not only reckless but selfish," John continues. "Racing is dangerous enough without you trying a maneuver you haven't practiced and scaring the shit out of everyone who loves you. Not to mention the domino effect you set off that could've hurt other people."

Sam nods, his red-rimmed eyes a stark contrast to his pale face. "I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

"You will _not_ pull a stunt like that again. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"If you want to learn to rub, we can teach you – but only on the test track."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, about Dean's car..." John says, switching topics. "The damage is gonna require time and money, and I expect you to contribute both until it's fixed. After school, on the weekends...whatever it takes."

"Yes, sir," Sam repeats, accepting his punishment, then biting his lip in the silence that settles between them. "Dad. I really am sorry. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I just...I just wanted to make you and Dean proud." He shrugs. "I know that sounds lame now."

"Sam. You _do_ make us proud," John tells him, holding his gaze. "We're proud of you every...fuckin'...day."

"Even when I do stupid shit?"

John chuckles. "C'mere..." he says and pulls his kid into a hug.

Sam clings to him and inhales a stuttered breath, still fragile from the extreme emotions of the night.

John holds him close for a few seconds, giving comfort and stability, then pats the kid between his bony shoulders. "Alright. Get out of here." He pushes back and jerks his chin toward the door. "Go help Bobby and tell Dean I need to see him."

Sam's expression becomes wary at the mention of his brother. "Do I still have to ride home with him?"

John smiles at the dread in Sam's voice. "Yes."

Sam wrinkles his nose but doesn't say anything else. He leaves the trailer as John rubs both hands over his face, preparing for round two.

When Dean enters, he looks calmer but still on edge. "If this is gonna be a lecture, I'm not in the mood."

"Neither am I."

Dean nods, his rigid posture relaxing as his defenses drop. "Sam's not hurt, is he? I was so pissed earlier I didn't even check."

"He's fine," John replies, glad to hear the guilt in Dean's tone since it signals a big brother back on duty.

"Good." A relieved smile flashes across Dean's face, then disappears. He sighs loud and harsh, staring at John. "Tonight was the first time I've ever been scared on the track, Dad."

John nods, already knowing that's why Dean reacted the way he did – his anger masking his fear that his little brother could've been injured.

"When I saw Sam hit Nick, my heart fuckin' stopped."

"Mine, too," John admits. "But like I said – Sam's fine."

"He's lucky," Dean counters. "If just one more thing had gone wrong out there, he could've gotten hurt. _Really_ hurt."

_Or worse_, John thinks and knows Dean is thinking the same.

They hold each other's gaze, neither saying Mary's name, though it feels like she's standing between them; the memory of her death a constant reminder of how quickly life can change.

"Maybe Sam should stop racing."

John blinks. "What? He just started."

"It's too dangerous," Dean argues. "Nothing happened to him tonight, but what about next time?"

John smiles at his oldest in full-on protective mode. "Dean. I understand what you're saying...but we can't lock Sam in his room, hoping nothing bad will ever happen to him." How many times has he wished it was that easy? How many times has he wished he could just keep his boys at home where nothing could touch them? He sighs. "Life is a shitshow. All we can do is make sure Sam is ready for the next time things go sideways."

"How can we do that when everything is dangerous, Dad? Nothing is safe on the track, which means _Sam_ isn't safe on the track."

"Neither are you."

"But I can handle myself."

"So can your brother," John replies. "We just have to teach him."

Dean arches an eyebrow. "Teach him what?"

"For starters – rubbing."

Dean's stomach twists at the idea. "Dad..."

"He'll be fine," John assures. "Sam has to start somewhere, and wouldn't _you _rather be the one pushing him than allowing some asshole like Nick the opportunity? At least you'll be doing it as practice, as a lesson in a safe place rather than letting someone else try to hurt or wreck the kid during an actual race."

"Yeah," Dean agrees. "I guess."

"He'll be fine," John repeats. "We'll start tomorrow. After we start working on your car..."

"Is Sam helping with that?"

John notes the slight bitterness in Dean's tone; his oldest convinced their youngest is being let off the hook far too easily. "He is."

"He_ should_. He's the one who wrecked it."

That's not the whole truth, but John lets it go.

"I can't believe my season is over."

"One loss doesn't end a season, Dean."

"It does when my car is fucked-up."

John shrugs. "We have other cars. You'll be back on the track next week." He pauses, making sure he has Dean's attention. "Tonight doesn't define us. Shit happens. All we can do is learn from it and move on." He stares at his oldest. "I know you're still upset with Sam, but he's just a kid, Dean. He just wants to make his dad and his big brother proud."

Dean scowls like he's ready to kick somebody's ass. "Who says he doesn't?"

"Sam thinks he doesn't."

"What?"

"Bobby said that's why Sam did what he did tonight – because he thinks we're not proud of him since he finishes last in every race."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Give me a fuckin' break. That kid could sit on his ass all day and still make me proud."

John laughs. "Agreed."

Dean shakes his head, annoyed by the ridiculous shit his little brother tells himself.

John's smile lingers. "Let's finish up and head home."

"Hell yes," Dean replies. "Is Sam riding with me?"

"I think you know the answer to that," John says, giving a rough pat to Dean's shoulder as he exits the trailer.

Dean groans at the awkwardness that awaits, but it's even tenser than he expected once they're in the Impala. He didn't speak to Sam, and Sam didn't speak to him while they finished loading the cars and their gear. Now, five miles down the highway, Sam is staring out the passenger window as the silence continues to stretch.

Dean flexes his hands on the steering wheel, splitting his attention between the road and the kid sitting beside him. He knows Sam thinks he's still pissed, but his anger has faded. He's just tired and sore and thankful they're heading home together instead of spending the night in a hospital.

Another mile passes before Dean decides he can't take this. After the way he treated Sam earlier, he can't blame the kid for being quiet and withdrawn, but he _needs_ to hear his little brother's voice. He needs the kid to look at him and realize everything is okay between them.

"Sammy..."

Sam doesn't respond, but Dean didn't expect him to. Coaxing him from his silence after one of their run-ins takes patience and perseverance.

"Sammy," Dean says again. "C'mon, man. Just look at me for a minute."

Sam's hands fidget in his lap – a sign he's anxious about another confrontation. The Impala cruises through two intersections before he finally glances over his shoulder, hesitant but listening.

Dean cringes within. He hates when he's the reason his kid is cautious and uncertain...and he hates how pale Sam is; his red eyes testifying to earlier tears and current exhaustion. He sighs. "Listen. I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I was a dick tonight."

Sam shrugs. "It's okay. I deserved it."

"Well...maybe a little," Dean allows, offering his brother a teasing smile.

Sam doesn't smile back. "I'm really sorry, Dean. I never meant for – "

"I know, Sammy," Dean soothes. "I'm just glad you weren't hurt."

"I'm glad _you_ weren't hurt," Sam counters. "I was so scared your car was gonna catch on fire."

_Of course you were_, Dean thinks as he stares out the windshield...because it always comes back to that for Sam. The kid is terrified of fire.

"I'm really, _really _sorry," Sam continues, turned in the seat now to face him. "Please don't hate me."

Dean glances at his little brother watching him with big, pleading eyes. Sam looks and sounds so young that he's reminded their dad is right – he's still just a kid.

Sam blinks at him, eager for absolution. "Dean?"

"I could never hate you, Sammy," Dean answers and reaches across the bench seat to ruffle his brother's hair.

Sam smiles, accepting the affection before ducking away with an irritated groan. "Ugh, Dean. Stop. You're gonna mess it up."

Dean snorts at the familiar complaint. "Too late."

Sam groans again as he fusses with his hair, brushing his bangs back across his forehead.

Dean chuckles, feeling lighter and happier than he has all night. Being back in sync with the kid sitting next to him always has that effect.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

"You're gonna do what?"

John doesn't repeat himself, doesn't even look up from where he is bent under the open hood of Dean's car. He knows Bobby heard him.

The early morning sun stretches across the concrete floor as an uncomfortable silence settles in the garage – just the clank of metal against metal and the hum of the radio that always seems to play more static than music.

Bobby cuts his eyes to Dean. "You're onboard with this?"

Dean shrugs as he stands beside John, passing tools to his dad while they work to repair the cracked engine block. "I guess."

Bobby snorts at the weak endorsement. "That's what I thought."

Dean sighs at his assumption, feeling caught between a proverbial rock and hard place. "I see what Dad's saying," he defends. "I just think – "

"It's a bullshit idea."

That gets John's attention. He stands to his full height, turning to face Bobby. "Don't put words in his mouth. And don't give me shit about preparing my kid."

"You're not preparing him, John. You're _rushing_ him."

John pulls a face. Bobby knows his boys as well as he does and loves them almost as much...which causes him to overstep, especially when it comes to Sam. The old man would never admit it, but sometimes he coddles the kid.

"If you push him before he's ready, you'll end up with an even bigger cluster than you got last night."

"Sam _is_ ready," John argues. "What he did last night proves he has the confidence to try new things on the track. Sure, he's young and inexperienced, but so was Dean at this stage in his racing career...and he turned out just fine." He glances at his oldest, receiving an answering smirk before refocusing on Bobby. "This is happening," he says, his tone leaving no room for debate. "We're teaching Sam to rub this afternoon – with or without you."

"Nothing happens around here without me," Bobby replies, and it's the truth. He spends more time at the Winchester's garage and house than he does at his own place across town. He calls himself Sam and Dean's uncle, but he's more like a surrogate father. He stepped in when John's world fell apart; when Mary died and John was left with two kids and no clue. He's the one who held the family together that first year, and 17 years later, he's still here. "I ain't goin' nowhere. Somebody's gotta supervise your bullshit ideas."

John huffs a laugh as the tension breaks. "Whatever you say, old man."

Bobby twitches a smile and gestures at the exposed engine. "How bad is it?" he asks as he crosses to the car to see for himself.

"Sammy always overachieves," Dean answers, implying his brother deserves exclusive blame for the extensive damage under the hood.

"Pretty sure he had some help," Bobby points out, exchanging a glance with John as he surveys the mess.

"He did," John agrees and pins Dean with a hard gaze. He let a similar statement go last night when emotions were still raw, but this morning after Sam left for school, a few things were set straight. "We talked about this."

Dean nods. He understands Nick and the other drivers are responsible for the destruction...and he understands Sam didn't intend to set the crash into motion – but here they are. He's sore as hell, and his car is beyond fucked. He wishes he could shake the anger that flares whenever he thinks about what happened, but the feeling continues to simmer along with uncertainty about teaching Sam to rub.

"What if he's not ready?"

John blinks at the sudden change in topic. "What?"

"Maybe Bobby's right." Dean glances at his uncle, then back to his dad. "Maybe we _are_ rushing Sam."

John shakes his head. "Dean. We talked about this, too."

"I know," Dean replies. "And I _do_ see what you're saying, Dad. I agree that Sam needs to begin learning track maneuvers. But as soon as the other drivers realize he's rubbing, all bets are off. Right now, everyone leaves him alone because he leaves _them_ alone."

"Everyone except Nick."

Dean scowls at the reminder. He fucking hates that asshole.

"Speaking of..." Bobby says, crossing back to his toolbox and pulling a folded newspaper from the top compartment. "I picked this up on the way over."

John arches an eyebrow as he accepts the Sports section of the _Lawrence Daily Post_. He glances at Dean before unfolding it to reveal side-by-side photos of the crash and the punch. He cringes at the cheesy headline – **RUMBLE AT THE RACES** – and angles the paper so Dean can read over his shoulder.

There's a brief history of the ongoing feud on the track...followed by a recap of the events leading up to the wreck...followed by eyewitness accounts of what occurred between John and Nick in the pit. The front-page article ends with the reporter interviewing Nick, asking if he has a message for the Winchesters. His reply is simple but threatening: "This isn't over."

John reads that last line again, his jaw aching from the rage clenched there.

"Damn right it isn't over," Dean rants. "God, I wish his car wasn't fucked-up, so he could race next weekend. I'd run him into the fucking wall!"

"Well..." Bobby drawls. "Rumor has it he'll be there."

"How?" Dean demands. "Everybody knows he only has one car."

Bobby shrugs. "Guess he made a deal to borrow someone else's."

"A deal with the devil," Dean mutters and paces the length of the garage to stop himself from hitting or throwing something.

John watches his oldest as he thinks about his youngest. "Sam can't know about this."

Bobby glares his disapproval. "I ain't lyin' to the kid."

"I'm not saying we lie to him," John replies, a slight edge to his tone. "I'm just saying we don't talk about it around him. Sam needs to be focused going into this next race, not worried about Nick running his fucking mouth all over town."

"Dad's right," Dean says, circling back to stand beside John. "Sam is already freaked out about what happened and doesn't want to race next weekend."

John tilts his head at the news. "What? How do you know that?"

"He told me."

"When?"

"Last night, then again this morning."

John frowns. "I didn't hear him say that."

"He didn't say it," Dean clarifies. "But he said it. You know?"

John snorts at the confusing explanation, though he understands what Dean is trying to communicate – that Sam didn't express his fear and anxiety with words; Dean just knows his little brother well enough to read the kid. He used to tease his oldest about being a Sammy Whisperer for how in tune the four-year old was with their youngest...and that hasn't changed with age. If anything, the bond between his sons has only become deeper and stronger. He's watched his boys have entire conversations with each other without saying a word.

There's a beat of silence.

"Is that why you're concerned about teaching Sam to rub?"

"I'm not concerned," Dean counters. "At least not about that. I know Sam can do it...but I also know he's gonna have a big-ass target on his back." He pauses, glancing between John and Bobby. "Nick's not the only one pissed about what happened last night. A lot of other cars were damaged in the crash. Not as much as mine or Nick's, but they were still banged up...which means the other drivers are gonna be aggressive as hell next weekend, Dad. They're gonna want payback for what Sam did."

"That's why we need to teach him how to defend himself on the track," John replies. "He needs to know how to rub without losing control."

"That takes time, John. Time we ain't got."

John sighs. It's difficult to keep pushing an issue when there's resistance on both sides, but he knows this is the right call. Wrecking a car is like falling off a horse – getting back in the saddle as soon as possible after the incident is best. If Sam doesn't get back on the track next weekend, the kid might lose his nerve.

"Sam's a fast learner," John reminds, tossing the newspaper into the barrel they use to burn trash. "He'll be fine. And if there's trouble he can't handle, you'll be out there with him."

Dean scowls at the weight of that responsibility. He loves his little brother more than anything and will always be there for his kid, but – "I can't protect him from everything, Dad." He shrugs at the hard-to-swallow truth; a truth he's learned more than once over the years. "The safest place for Sam is off the track."

Bobby nods. "I agree."

"I don't." John holds Bobby's gaze, then turns his attention to Dean. "Sam is racing next weekend. End of discussion."

"Fine," Dean snaps. "But when something happens, it's gonna be _your_ fault. Remember that."

John shakes his head at the dramatic response. "Nothing is gonna happen."

"Famous last words..." Bobby says as he exchanges a look with Dean. He shares the big brother's unease and wonders if kicking John's stubborn ass would knock some sense into him. After everything the family has experienced, he doesn't know how John has the balls to say nothing will happen. At best, he's tempting fate...and at worst, he's inviting tragedy.

The uncomfortable silence returns as John ducks under the hood of Dean's car, ending the conversation. For the next several hours, the three of them work together. No one speaks as their frustration with each other continues to linger, but their rhythm is seamless. They flow in perfect harmony – passing tools, pointing, nodding, and repairing the demolished car bit-by-bit.

It's mid-afternoon when they're interrupted by tires crunching gravel.

"Sam's home," Dean announces, breaking the quiet tension. He smiles as he says those words, eager to see his brother even if he's not eager for what awaits at the test track. He wipes his hands on his jeans and walks out of the garage, smiling wider when he sees his kid coming towards him. "Hey, Sammy."

"Hey."

Dean frowns at his brother's tone. "What's wrong?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing."

Dean grunts at the obvious lie. "Don't bullshit me, Sam," he replies because he knows damn well his little brother is upset. "What happened?" He scans the kid for clues. "Sammy..."

Sam bites his lip. "Have you seen today's paper?"

Dean arches an eyebrow, already knowing where this is leading. Since when does his teenage little brother look at the fucking newspaper? Of all the days to start, he picks today? Jesus...

"The front page of the Sports section has a picture of the crash," Sam says, not waiting for Dean to answer. "And another picture of Dad punching Nick." He cringes. "It's bad, Dean. Really bad. It makes our whole family look like a bunch of dicks. The article makes it sound like I start wrecks, and Dad starts fights...but it wasn't like that."

"I know," Dean agrees. "And anyone who was actually at the race knows that, too. Fuck the media. They're just trying to sell newspapers, Sam."

"I guess," Sam allows. "But there's more." He pauses, hesitant to reveal the part he knows will flip his big brother's overprotective switch. "At the end of the article, Nick made a threat. I mean...it was vague but – "

"It wasn't vague."

Sam blinks. "You've seen it?"

Dean nods. "Bobby brought a copy this morning, so he's seen it...I've seen it...Dad's seen it. We were just hoping _you_ wouldn't see it."

"I wish I hadn't seen it, either," Sam admits. "But one of the guys at school brought it from home and was passing it around. It was taped to my locker after lunch. Everyone's talking about it and saying Nick is gonna kick my ass." He swallows. "Dean..."

"Relax, Sammy," Dean soothes, trying to ease his brother's obvious fear while ignoring his own desire for revenge. He wants to demand names. He wants to start forming his hit list. He wants to throat punch every single prick who upset his kid. Sam is stressed enough about what happened last night without having to deal with this shit. "Have I ever let anyone kick your ass?"

Sam quirks a smile. "No."

"Exactly." Dean reaches forward, slinging his arm over his brother's thin shoulders. "Don't worry about Nick or anything else. C'mon..." He steers Sam toward the garage. "Dad wants to talk with you."

"About what?" Sam asks, glancing at Dean as they walk. "Rubbing?"

"Yep. Today's the day, Sammy."

Sam wrinkles his nose. The topic had been discussed before school that morning, but he was hoping Dean had talked their dad out of it by now. He sighs. "I don't want to."

"You did last night."

Sam glares at the dig but doesn't shrug away from Dean's arm still resting over his shoulders as they cross the yard. He knows his brother is harboring remnants of anger over what happened, and he doesn't blame him. He sighs again. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

"I can't," Sam replies. "Everything that's gone wrong is because of me. Your car, the newspaper article, these..." He gestures to the bruises peeking out around the collar of Dean's shirt. He saw the blue and purple splotches covering Dean's shoulders and chest when they had passed each other in the hall before breakfast and had been haunted by them all day. "Do they hurt?"

"They do," Dean confirms. "But I've had worse. Stop worrying."

Sam nods and forces a smile as they enter the garage. "Hi, Uncle Bobby."

"Hey, squirt," Bobby greets, wiping his greasy hands on the rag he keeps in his back pocket. "How was school?"

"Okay."

"Just okay?" John checks, emerging from the side room where they store extra parts. He glances at Dean, then back to Sam. "What happened?"

Dean decides to break the news first. "He knows about the article in the paper."

John scowls. "You told him?"

"No," Sam defends. "Dean didn't tell me. I already knew. They were passing it around at school and talking about how Nick's gonna kick my ass next weekend...which is why I don't want to race, Dad."

John's scowl deepens. "We don't back down from bullies, Sam. We stand up to them."

"I tried standing up to Nick, and this is what happened," Sam argues, pointing to Dean's car.

"What you did last night was a half-ass attempt to pull off something you had never tried," John corrects. "Rubbing is racing, but there's a huge difference between winging it and learning it. That's why we're starting now. You have a whole week to become familiar with how and when to rub during a race." He jerks his chin toward the door. "Go change clothes, then help your brother load the cars. The test track closes at nine."

"I have homework."

It's a convenient excuse...though it would be more convincing if it wasn't a Friday. The kid has all weekend to complete his assignments.

John smirks. "You can do it later. Now, go. Hurry up. Daylight's burning."

Sam sighs and glances at Bobby, then at Dean before leaving the garage.

Dean watches him go, hating how powerless he feels. He runs his hand through his hair. "I know you don't want to hear it, Dad...but this is a bad idea."

"It is," Bobby agrees. "It's a fuckin' nightmare just waitin' to happen." He packs his toolbox and heads to his truck before his fist ends up in John's face. "Meet you there."

John nods and begins gathering scattered tools. He understands why Dean and Bobby are wary of his plan, but – "Sam will be fine."

_We'll see_, Dean thinks and still has his doubts a week later when they're at the track, waiting for the race to begin. He acknowledges Sam's training went better than expected, but tonight will be his little brother's first real-world experience pushing back against other drivers...including Nick who did indeed show up with a different car.

Sam had paled when the asshole had walked by their trailer earlier, trying to get under the kid's skin.

It worked. It worked so well he got under Dean's skin, too.

Dean rubs both hands over his face, trying to center himself. If he's this anxious, Sam must be going fucking crazy. He cringes at the thought and cuts his eyes to John. "I need to see Sam," he says and ducks around the back of the trailer before his dad can respond. He scans the area, smiling when he sees Sam standing beside his car as Bobby hovers, giving last-minute advice. "Sammy."

Sam's attention darts to him. "Dean." He sounds and looks relieved, then frowns when he remembers they're not supposed to be together before a race. "What about Dad's rule?"

"Fuck it," Dean replies. No one is keeping him from his kid tonight.

Bobby nods his agreement and approval. "I'll be back," he says before making himself scarce, giving the brothers their privacy.

Dean stares at Sam, feeling like they're the only two people in the pit even though he can sense the activity around them and hear the announcer's chatter over the track's speakers. "Are you okay?"

"No," Sam admits, holding Dean's gaze. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up."

Dean snorts. "Well...don't."

Sam swallows against the anxiety churning in his stomach. "I'm scared, Dean."

The whispered confession breaks Dean's heart.

"I know Nick is gonna try something."

"He is," Dean agrees because it's not a secret. Everyone knows Nick is coming for the Winchesters.

Sam's eyes mist. He appreciates his brother's honesty, but it terrifies him even more. "Dean."

Dean offers a reassuring smile as his heart continues to ache. Sam has this way of saying his name when he's scared – like it's both a talisman and a binky; something to protect and comfort. In this moment, it's more than the big brother can bear.

"It's not too late to pull out of the race."

Sam blinks. "What?" He shakes his head. "Yes, it is. Dad would – "

"I'll handle Dad," Dean interrupts, knowing Bobby would back him as well. "Just say the word and this is over. You don't have to race tonight."

"Yes, I do," Sam counters, though he would sound more convincing if his voice didn't shake. "Dad's right. We can't back down from Nick."

"Fuck that asshole!" Dean snaps. "We don't have to prove shit – not to him or anyone else. _You_ are the only thing that matters to me, Sam. The world can go fuck itself as long as you're safe and not hurt."

Sam's eyes well with tears. He knows his dad and Bobby love him...but no one loves him like his big brother. He's overwhelmed every time he's reminded how much.

Dean sighs. He didn't mean to upset the kid. He just needs Sam to understand he doesn't have to do this. "Sammy..."

Sam begins to respond, then stops when the announcer calls the drivers to their positions.

Dean continues to stare at him. "It's not too late."

Sam twitches a smile. Dean would say that even if he was already strapped in the car. "I have to do this," he insists, hating to disappoint his brother but knowing this is an adversary he must face. If he withdraws from the race, if he hides...then Nick wins. "I'm sorry."

Dean nods. He gets it. He's even proud of the kid. But _fuck..._ "Don't be sorry," he tells Sam, pulling him into a hug. "Just be safe."

"You, too," Sam says, the words muffled as he buries his face into Dean's shoulder.

Dean holds him tighter, trying to absorb Sam's fear and anxiety.

"Boys."

The brothers push apart, turning to face their dad.

John's reluctance to separate them is reflected in his pinched expression. He hesitates, then sighs and tilts his head toward the other side of the trailer, giving Dean his cue.

Dean smiles at his little brother. "See you out there, Sammy."

Sam nods, not trusting himself to speak as Dean disappears around the back of the trailer.

"It's okay to be nervous," John tells his youngest, stepping forward to squeeze Sam's shoulder. "Just remember what we taught you."

Sam nods again.

"And remember, if you get in trouble – "

"Call Dean."

John huffs a laugh at the immediate response. That was one lesson he never had to teach. Sam was born with the instinct to call for Dean.

"Alright, squirt..." Bobby says, emerging from the crowd. He moves past John, leading the way to Sam's car. "Let's go."

John squeezes Sam's shoulder a little harder, hoping the kid can feel his love and pride. "See you at the finish line."

_I hope so_, Sam thinks and offers his dad a small smile before John joins Dean on the other side of the trailer.

Bobby hands Sam his helmet and guides him toward the car. Ten minutes later, he's on the track; his heart pounding so loud he can barely hear the voices in his ear. John, Bobby, and Dean are discussing strategies while he's just trying to breathe. John decided all four of them would share the same channel during this race to better coordinate their maneuvers and look out for Sam...but Sam just wants to get _out _of the car. He swallows as he watches the flagman climb to his post.

"Good luck, boys," John tells them seconds before the flag drops and the race begins.

As expected, it's a fucking free-for-all. Track rules are forgotten or ignored as drivers vie for the top spot while taking out their aggression on each other. Dirt, mud, and gravel spew into the bleachers as the cars skid around the corners, risking maximum speeds through the turns to maintain their positions.

For the first two laps, Sam manages to hold his own. When he's rubbed, he rubs back. It's not as smooth or as natural as Dean's rubs...but he keeps control of his car.

"Fuck yeah, Sammy!"

Sam smiles at his big brother's praise, feeling his nervous energy fade as he realizes he can do this – he can stand up for himself without causing a disaster. It's the boost of confidence he needs. His smile lingers as he completes another lap, then disappears when he checks his rearview. At first, he's not sure since it's a different car up his ass, but on second glance, he knows without a doubt it's Nick.

"Dean."

"Yeah, Sammy. I see him," Dean replies, already dropping back.

"Wait, Dean. Not yet," John warns, wanting to give his youngest the opportunity to handle Nick by himself before Dean comes to his rescue. "No need to panic, Sam," he advises, his voice calm and steady. "Just stay focused."

"He's right, squirt," Bobby says. "You got this."

Sam nods and watches Nick riding behind him – so close he can't see the car's headlights.

Nick nudges his rear bumper like a cat playing with a mouse.

"It's okay, Sammy. He's just trying to fuck with you."

_It's working_, Sam thinks and wishes Dean was _with_ him instead of talking in his ear. He tightens his grip around the steering wheel, bracing for the next blow.

Nick delivers, hitting Sam from behind once more before coming up beside him to perform his favorite maneuver – trapping the kid between himself and the wall.

"Push back, Sam."

Sam cringes at his dad's order but does as he's told, turning his car to the left even as he can feel the resistance of Nick's car keeping him against the wall.

"Keep pushing."

"I'm trying," Sam grunts, surprised by how much force it takes to turn his car harder and sharper.

Nick doesn't budge. His only reaction is to smile at Sam through the passenger window.

Sam swallows as a sense of dread washes over him.

"Fuck this shit!" Dean rants, done with leaving his little brother to fend for himself. "I'm coming, Sammy."

_Hurry_, Sam thinks, not sure which sound is most unnerving – metal scraping against metal...or metal scraping against concrete. Either way, his car is caught in the middle._ He_ is caught in the middle.

Dean drops back further, weaving between the cars to assume a better position. He plans to rub Nick away from his kid and off the track, but Nick anticipates his move. He brakes and swerves at the exact moment Dean surges forward, causing Dean to collide with Sam.

"No!" Dean yells, watching in horror as Sam's car ricochets off the wall and begins spinning. He tries to brake, but his speed is too fast. There's not enough time or space to prevent a second collision as Sam continues to spin toward him.

The spectators are on their feet and gasp as the brothers' cars clip each other – Dean's front bumper hitting Sam's rear end at just the right angle to send the kid rolling.

What happens next is a fucking nightmare.

Dean, John, and Bobby are powerless as Sam screams over the headset. His car rolls down the track as if it weighs nothing; metal flying in all directions as it busts apart with every flip. Drivers attempt to dodge both the debris and the out-of-control car, resulting in multiple other crashes. The red flag waves while the announcer tries to calm the chaos erupting in the bleachers as everyone rushes toward the fence separating the stands from the track. Some are angling for a clearer view of the wrecks while others are pushing through the gate, eager to help the injured.

When Sam's car stops rolling, it rests on its hood at the far end of the track, spinning like a lazy top. His screams are replaced by an eerie silence over the headset.

"Sam!" John and Bobby call in unison as they run down the sidelines.

Dean is speechless – too panicked for words. He scrambles out of his car and snatches off his helmet, throwing it to the ground; he needs to see and hear with no obstructions as he hauls ass toward his kid.

Firemen and EMTs rush toward the scene as well, but Dean arrives first.

"Sammy!" he shouts as he gets closer, noticing his brother's helmet lying several feet away among the scattered glass and metal. He slides to a stop and dives under the overturned car. "Sammy!"

Sam hangs upside down, held in place by the harness. He blinks at Dean long and slow, implying he just regained consciousness. He looks dazed and confused, like he doesn't know what happened and doesn't realize the danger he's in. "Dean?"

Dean smiles, relieved to hear his little brother speak even if the kid looks like shit. There's blood everywhere – smeared across his forehead and down his temple, over his jaw and chin, even streaking through his hair. His eyes are glassy, pupils dilated. It's not a question of whether he's sustained head trauma; the question is how severe.

"Sammy. What hurts?" Dean asks as he slides on his belly through the dirt, trying to get deeper into the car.

"Nothing," Sam answers, drowsy and detached.

Dean doubts that's true and hopes Sam's pain is masked by shock, not paralysis. The possibility tightens his chest.

"Are _you_ hurt?"

Dean huffs a startled laugh at his little brother – at this bloody, woozy kid trapped upside down in a car...yet still concerned about him. "I'm fine, Sammy." He brushes matted bangs out of squinted eyes. "Listen. I need you to unhook your harness, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam murmurs but doesn't move, seeming content to hang there and stare at Dean instead of attempting to free himself.

Dean's stomach clenches. Maybe Sam doesn't move because he _can't_. Maybe he _is_ paralyzed...maybe his arms are broken...maybe –

Sam's eyes dip closed as he floats on the edge of consciousness.

Maybe he's just too out of it to make the effort.

_Maybe... _Dean allows, though the realization offers minimal comfort. "Sammy..." he calls, giving his brother's shoulder a light shake. "Hey. Stay with me," he commands, concerned by how quickly the kid is fading.

"M'with you," Sam mumbles, watching as Dean crawls further into the car. "What're y'doin'?"

Dean doesn't respond as he reaches up, searching for the buckle that connects the safety harness to the driver's seat. His fingers fumble over fabric and metal until they land on a familiar shape. He pushes the button on the harness...then frowns when it doesn't release. He pushes again with the same results.

"No, no, no, no, no," Dean mutters because this is not happening. He tries a third time as Sam continues to blink at him.

"Dean." Sam wrinkles his nose. "Wha's at smell?"

Dean smells it, too, and doesn't know which is most concerning – Sam slurring his words or the kid not recognizing the distinct odor of gasoline. He swallows against the renewed panic and scans the car's interior, focusing on the trickle of amber liquid pooling in the bottom corner of the hood.

"Fuck," he hisses, now battling two enemies – a ruptured gas tank leaking fuel...and a jammed harness refusing to release his brother.

"Dean. Y'should go."

"I'm not leaving you, Sammy," Dean promises and pushes even further into the car for a better grip on the harness. He yanks on the straps held in place by a bent buckle, unaware smoke is filling the car until Sam starts coughing.

"Dean..." Sam coughs again and finally shifts in the seat; his sluggish movements becoming agitated as his addled brain recognizes the smell of something burning. "Dean!"

"It's okay," Dean soothes, even as he feels the heat above them and hears people rushing toward the car.

"Get him out! It's gonna blow!" someone yells and grabs Dean's legs, hauling him backwards.

Dean claws at the ground, kicking at whoever is trying to separate him from his kid.

"I need some help!" the same person shouts.

"I've got him!"

Dean growls as another pair of hands grab his legs; the combined strength of two firemen dragging him away from the burning car. "No!" he screams, struggling against their hold as they pull him to his feet.

"Dean!"

Dean lunges at the car, responding to Sam's cry on a primal level. "Sammy!" he calls back, seeing the kid's blood-streaked hand reaching for him through the busted window.

"Dean!"

The repeated cry is drowned out by the pop of sparks combusting to ignite another fire at the opposite end of Sam's car. The flames and smoke curl into the night sky, refusing to cower under the spray of water from the firetruck. The blaze rages, consuming the car's undercarriage and heading toward Dean's little brother trapped inside.

"Dean!"

Dean shrugs out of the firemen's grip; his shove causing them both to stumble. When they regain their footing and reach for him again, he comes up swinging – punching one, then the other. They sprawl on the track as Dean turns, diving under the car and grabbing Sam's hand; a hand that is still smaller than his.

"I'm here," he tells his brother, his heart aching at the tear tracks on the kid's bloody face. He squeezes Sam's hand. "I'm right here."

Sam stares at him with wide eyes, coughing as smoke continues to fill his lungs.

Dean slips his hand from Sam's grasp and reaches for the harness, knowing this is his last chance – he either frees his little brother or dies with him. The thought is terrifying only because he knows the effect it would have on their dad if he lost them the same way he lost Mary.

_Not today_, Dean thinks and snatches the strap from its buckle, startling when Sam tumbles out of the seat.

Sam groans as Dean shifts in the small space to wrap his arms around his brother. "I've got you," he murmurs, comforting the terrified kid clinging to him.

The firemen return to the driver's side window, crouching beneath the spiking flames, and this time, Dean is thankful for their help; thankful he doesn't have to let go of Sam to escape the engulfed car.

When the brothers are pulled from the wreck, they're greeted by a blur of flashing lights and a swarm of emergency workers. The EMTs are the first to pounce, eager to assess and treat, but Dean shakes them off as he crouches over his brother.

"Back off," he snaps, blocking Sam from their reach. No one is touching his kid until he's had the chance to check Sam over himself.

The EMTs exchange glances while the lead technician completes a quick visual triage, deciding the blood covering Dean is not his own and Sam doesn't appear critical – just scared and dazed. Oxygen for smoke inhalation and stitches for the gash across the kid's forehead are a given, but he also needs to be transported to the hospital for a more thorough exam. Imaging tests will diagnose the severity of his concussion and check for any internal injuries not yet symptomatic.

"Back. Off," Dean repeats when no one moves.

"Okay," the lead technician agrees, gesturing for her team to give the boys their space. She had heard rumors about Dean's protectiveness over his little brother but witnessing the big brother's intensity is unnerving. "We'll be over here."

Dean nods, then turns his attention to his brother still huddled beneath him on the track – like a baby chick tucked under its mother hen. "Sammy..."

Sam blinks up at him – a mess of dirt and blood and tears.

Dean brushes sticky bangs from misty, pain-filled eyes. "C'mon..." he urges and stands, lifting the kid with him. His touch gentle, his grip strong as Sam wobbles, trying to find his balance. "Easy, Sammy."

After two tries, Sam is on his feet, swaying and squinting – overwhelmed by the brightness and noise surrounding them.

"C'mere," Dean says, pulling him into a careful hug. He cups the back of his kid's head and sighs, savoring the moment because tonight was _too fucking close_.

Sam sags against him, shaking.

"It's okay," Dean whispers. "You're okay."

Sam's trembling fingers twist the fabric of Dean's racing suit as he leans closer, seeking comfort; the comfort he always finds in the safety and familiarity of his big brother.

"You're okay, Sammy," Dean repeats and rubs between his brother's shoulders, content to stand there and hug his kid while all hell breaks loose around them. He watches the firemen douse the disintegrated remains of Sam's car and thinks about their mom...and their dad.

Speaking of...

Dean scans the crowd, remembering John and Bobby were running toward this end of the track after the crash. The scene is chaotic and almost impossible to access at this point, but that wouldn't stop them. Nothing would stop their dad and uncle from reaching them, especially when Sam is hurt...so where are they? Why –

Sam coughs into his shoulder, scattering his thoughts.

Dean blinks. "Sam."

Sam coughs once more – a sharper, deeper sound – then flinches at the pain that flares. He moans, curling toward his left side as Dean eases him back, holding him at arm's length.

"Here?" Dean asks, one hand hovering over Sam's.

Sam nods, biting his lip to stifle another moan as the pain seems to blossom and spread. "Dean..."

"It's okay. You probably just busted a few ribs," Dean predicts and hopes that's all. "Just breathe through it."

Sam nods again, turning pale beneath the blood streaking his face. He winces, then swallows like he's going to throw up.

Dean arches an eyebrow. "You gonna hurl on me, Sammy?"

It wouldn't be the first time...or the last.

Sam wrinkles his nose. "Maybe," he admits. "It just..._hurts_." The word is spoken through clenched teeth as he bends toward the pain consuming his left side. "Dean. M'cold."

Dean frowns at the announcement – at the return of Sam's slurred speech and the sudden arrival of new symptoms.

"Why's it s'cold?"

"It's not cold, Sammy," Dean replies, calm and steady even as he pushes down the dread rising in his throat. He motions for the EMTs. "We're gonna get you checked out now, okay?"

Sam's eyes flutter as his breathing becomes shallow. "Dean. I think m'gonna pass out."

Dean steps closer, reacting to the panic in his brother's voice. "No, you're not. Just breathe. Breathe with me."

Sam shakes his head like it's too late for that and reaches for Dean, desperate for his big brother as he feels the world slipping away.

Dean reaches back, catching the kid as he collapses.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

"Sam..." Dean calls as his little brother hangs limp and unresponsive in his arms. Sam's head bobs forward when Dean shakes him, desperate and panicked. "Sammy!"

"Lay him down," the lead technician orders as she approaches and is already reaching to cut away Sam's racing suit before Dean even settles the kid on the track. "How old is he?"

"Seventeen."

"Does he have any allergies or preexisting medical conditions?"

"No."

"And his name is Sam?"

Dean nods as the other EMTs crowd around, checking vitals and announcing stats.

"BP 70/40."

"200bpm."

"SpO2 85."

"Too low. Too high. Too low," one of them summarizes.

"Shock," another one murmurs and receives an answering nod.

"Start oxygen?"

"Yes. I want oxygen and an IV on this kid. Tessa, standby with _Levophed_."

Tessa shakes her head. "Are you sure, Billie? His heart is already beating too fast. Do we really want to strain it with a dose of – "

"We'll have to risk it," Billie interrupts. "If his blood pressure drops any lower, we're looking at organ failure."

"Organ failure?" Dean repeats, feeling like he's trapped in a nightmare as he listens to them talk. Not even a minute ago, Sam was on his feet – shaken and bloody but overall seeming fine. Now he's on the verge of organ failure?

"Push 2ccs of _Levophed_. Monitor vitals and standby to push more," Billie directs before glancing at Dean kneeling in the dirt on the other side of Sam. "We'll need a CT or ultrasound to confirm, but I suspect your brother is bleeding somewhere."

Somewhere other than the deep cut across his forehead.

Somewhere other than the smaller scratches covering his face and hands.

Somewhere within.

Dean pales, remembering how Sam had curled toward the pain seconds before he collapsed. "Left side," he reports and rips the remaining fabric of Sam's racing suit to reveal skin stained blue and purple; blood seeping beneath the surface, marking its trail with splotchy bruises varying in size and depth of color.

"Prepare for transport. _Now_," Billie barks, scattering two of the EMTs. "Notify the ER," she tells another. "MVA. Seventeen-year old male in critical condition presenting with symptoms of hypovolemic shock due to probable splenic rupture. Recommend OR on standby." She glances again at Dean, seeing the horror in his expression. "Your brother has sustained massive internal trauma."

_No shit_, Dean thinks as he stares at Sam's exposed torso. The kid's entire left side from his armpit to his waist is marred by a swirl of bruises so blue, they appear black. Blood is leaking where it doesn't belong, claiming territory and perhaps even Sam's life.

The realization is terrifying.

"Is he..." Dean swallows, choking on the words. "Is he bleeding out?"

"Yes."

Dean swallows again at the blunt truth and grasps Sam's hand, refusing to let go as the EMTs work to stabilize his kid before transferring him to the stretcher. "Sammy," he says as he walks beside the gurney. "I'm right here, okay? Just stay with me."

"Actually..." Billie corrects, halting Dean from boarding the ambulance. "He's with us now. You'll have to follow separately in your own vehicle."

Dean scowls. "Fuck that! Sam needs me."

"I understand. But right now, he needs us more." Billie climbs into the back of the ambulance while her team works behind her, blocking Sam from Dean's view. "We're taking him to Memorial. You can meet us there. And if I were you, I would hurry."

The advice is ominous, but it's the urgency in her tone that makes Dean's stomach twist. Does this woman expect Sam to die on the way to the hospital? It's a possibility Dean can't process, can't even fathom. He holds her gaze. "I can't lose him."

Billie nods. "We'll do our best."

It's a guarded promise – the kind people make when they're unsure if they can keep it.

The ambulance doors are pulled shut as it prepares to leave, but Dean can still see the EMTs through the small window at the back; their movements frantic, their expressions worried as they tend to his little brother.

The driver blasts the horn twice, then blares the high-pitched siren as the ambulance rolls forward.

"It's always a shame when they're so young."

Dean startles at the stranger appearing out of nowhere, standing there beside him.

The man looks old and frail, like death himself. He stares straight ahead, watching the red lights flash and fade in the distance. When the ambulance disappears, he nods with a satisfied hum, then ghosts a smile at Dean before seeming to dissolve into the crowd.

Dean is oblivious as he checks his pockets, realizing his keys are where the Impala is – back at the trailer. "Fuck!" he hisses and turns, pushing and elbowing people out of his way.

The scene is still chaotic with other wrecks and rescue vehicles scattered on the track, but Dean doesn't notice as he runs faster and harder than he can ever remember. His speed fueled by the image of Sam lying motionless on the stretcher, covered in blood as blood also spreads within; his kid surrounded by strangers while his life slips away inch-by-inch.

_I can't lose him._

Dean had never meant anything as much as he meant that – he cannot lose Sam. He can't fucking do it. If Sam dies...

_Stop_, he tells himself as he continues to run, haunted by the lead technician's grim expression and parting words.

_We'll do our best. _

_We'll do our best. _

_We'll do our best. _

_We'll – _

"Dean!"

Dean doesn't hear his name or recognize the voice calling it until someone grabs him. His arm swings back on instinct, preparing to punch the asshole in the face...but the asshole blocks the blow, gripping his wrist.

"Hey. Look at me."

Dean blinks at the familiar face inches from his. "Dad?" He jerks his arm from John's hold. "Where the fuck have you been?"

"Where the fuck are you going?" John counters, demanding an explanation for why his oldest is running in the opposite direction of where their youngest should be. "Where's Sam?"

"On the way to Memorial."

John nods. He wants his kid checked out at the hospital...but something in Dean's tone and expression implies Sam's ambulance ride to the ER is more than just standard procedure following a wreck. "How bad is he hurt?" he asks, then frowns at the amount of blood soaked through Dean's racing suit. "Jesus. Are _you _hurt?"

"No," Dean answers, shrugging away from John's reach. "This isn't mine. It's Sam's."

_That's_ how bad their kid is hurt.

That's why Dean was hauling ass back to the trailer.

That's why he's side-stepping John even now.

"We have to go."

John nods again. Damn right they have to go. "I'll drive," he says, pulling his keys from his pocket as he matches his son's pace.

They're a few steps down the track when Dean realizes there should be _two_ people with him – his dad and...

"Where's Bobby?"

"In custody."

Dean looks at John over his shoulder as they run side-by-side. "What?"

"Crowley and his security team were blocking the gate," John explains, thankful for the adrenaline pumping through his system. It's been years since he's run this fast for this long. "They wouldn't let anyone through, including us...even though Crowley _knew _we were trying to get to you and Sam. He called it 'crowd control'. I called him a fucking prick."

Dean snorts at the accurate description. "So..." he prompts, his chest burning from the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

"Bobby punched him," John replies, seeing his truck up ahead as they enter the pit. "He knew if I started something, _I_ would be detained...so, he punched Crowley and I climbed the fence."

It sounds like a scene from an action movie – the sidekick engaging the villain in combat while the star escapes to be reunited with his sons.

"Wow."

It's an underwhelming response to what must have been an epic moment, but it's all Dean can manage. He's too breathless, too anxious, and too distracted to care about the details. He just wants to get to Sam.

It's an urgency John shares as he climbs into his truck and cranks the engine. Dean pauses long enough to strip his racing suit, revealing jeans and a _Winchester and Sons_ t-shirt before taking his place in the passenger seat. He stares at the blood-stained suit on the ground, thankful to leave it behind as John burns tires out of the pit. The streetlights, headlights, and taillights are a blur of color as they clear the track's entrance and turn onto the highway. The gas pedal is flat on the floor; John proving he is the family's original race car driver as he weaves through traffic at maximum speed.

"Tell me about Sam. Was he conscious?"

The question makes Dean want to throw up. How is he supposed to tell his dad their youngest might be dead when they reach the hospital?

"Was Sam conscious?" John repeats, his worry manifesting as edgy impatience.

"He was for a little while."

John arches an eyebrow. "Head injury?"

"Yes."

"How bad?"

"I don't know," Dean admits. "He's got a deep cut across his forehead."

"Is that where the blood came from?"

"Most of it."

John checks his rearview, absorbing the information. Head wounds usually bleed like a bitch, so maybe it looked worse than it is. "Stitches?"

"Yeah, probably."

"Probably has a concussion, too."

Dean nods his agreement. "I'm pretty sure he was knocked out when the car rolled, but he was awake and talking when I got to him."

"Good. That's good."

Dean cringes at the hope in his dad's voice. "Well...it _was_ good."

"Was?" John echoes. He glances at Dean in the passenger seat, trying to ignore the dread crawling up his spine. "What does that mean?" He narrows his eyes when his oldest doesn't respond, doesn't even look at him. "Dean."

"Maybe I shouldn't have stood him up," Dean says, staring out the window. "Maybe that's what did it." He shakes his head, overwhelmed by the guilt of second-guessing. Was he to blame for Sam's collapse? Was he the reason their kid could be dead the next time they see him? His eyes mist at the thought; his throat too tight to speak.

John's knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel, more unnerved by his son's silence than his rambling. "Dean. What happened?"

Dean rubs his hand over his face, trying to pull himself together. He can hear the worry in John's voice, but it's misplaced. He doesn't deserve his dad's concern.

"Dean."

Dean turns to look at him, knowing John sees the tears shining in his eyes.

John swallows at the unexpected reaction. He can count on one hand the number of times he's seen his oldest cry; each instance sparking a memory of loss and heartache. The dread tingling across his back wraps around his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

"Dad. I didn't know Sam was bleeding inside. I just – "

"What?" John blurts, feeling his own blood run cold. Out of all the things he thought he was prepared for Dean to say, this wasn't on the list. "Sammy's bleeding inside?"

Dean nods.

"From what?"

"They didn't say," Dean replies. "But I could tell it's bad. Really bad."

"Fuck," John whispers. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_." He clenches his jaw as he stares out the windshield; his mind buzzing with questions. He exits the highway, laying on the truck's horn as he flies through the intersection. "Was he breathing?"

"Barely," Dean answers. "They had him on oxygen and said his blood pressure was too low, and his heart was beating too fast." He pauses as his thoughts begin to spiral. "Dad. What if – "

"Don't say it," John snaps, cutting his eyes at Dean. "You hear me? Don't. Fucking. Say it. Don't even _think_ it," he orders, refusing to believe the world is cruel enough to take his child. He already lost his wife. Isn't that enough? He flexes his hands on the steering wheel, trying to keep his emotions in check. "Sam might be hurt, but he's a strong kid. You know that. He's gonna pull through this. He's gonna be fine."

Dean wishes he could buy into John's denial...but he can't. It's easier for his dad to believe in a happy ending because he didn't see Sam in the back of the ambulance. He didn't see the blood pooling beneath Sam's skin. He didn't see the EMTs' faces while they worked to keep the kid alive.

John didn't see it...but Dean did.

"I'm gonna kill Nick," he announces, breaking the silence as he thinks about how this happened, how Sam became so severely injured. There's only one person to blame, and he'll be dead once Dean gets his hands on him. "I'm serious, Dad. I'm gonna kill him."

"Get in line."

Dean twitches a smile at John's icy tone. He never doubted he would have to wait his turn to inflict pain on the asshole who committed the ultimate sin – hurting Sam.

Another mile passes before John wheels into the hospital's parking lot, braking hard in front of the ER's sliding doors.

Dean jumps from the truck, rushing inside toward the receptionist's desk. "Sam Winchester. Where is he?"

The girl glances up. "Are you next of kin?"

Dean glares. She knows damn well he is. This is not the first time they've met. She's had a crush on Sam since elementary school. "Seriously, Becky?"

She shrugs. "I have to ask. And I need to see some ID, too. It's protocol."

"You can shove protocol up your ass. Where's my brother?"

Becky crosses her arms over her chest, defiant and pouting...then smiling and bubbly as John approaches. "Hi, Mr. Winchester!"

"Becky..." John greets, coming to stand beside Dean. "Where's my son?"

"I can't tell you...because you can't go back there."

Dean pulls a face and heads toward the double doors with John following behind him.

"I mean it," Becky insists, scooting around her desk to step in front of them. "I'll call security."

"I dare you."

Becky scowls at Dean's challenge. "Listen. I'm not trying to be a you-know-what, okay? I totally get it. I know you want to see Sam, but you can't. He's critical right now. He's lost _a lot_ of blood and isn't breathing on his own." She bites her lip. "I probably shouldn't even tell you this...but he's already coded twice."

"Holy fuck," Dean murmurs, her words stabbing him in the chest. He looks at John, seeing his panic mirrored in his dad's expression.

"But he's still – "

"Yes, sir," Becky assures. "They were able to revive him both times. Sam is still with us. But he's not out of the woods. They're trying to stabilize him for surgery. And if you go back there, you'll only be in their way." She sighs, her gaze shifting between John and Dean. "I'm sorry. I know this is hard. We all love Sam."

Dean gives a dismissive grunt, not in the mood for her bullshit. She doesn't even _know_ Sam. His little brother just tolerates her because the kid's too nice to tell her to fuck off.

"You can wait over there," Becky advises, gesturing at the chairs lining the wall. "The doctor will update you as soon as he can."

Dean stares at her, considering his options. He knows he could get around her with no problem...but he doesn't want to interfere with Sam's care. That's the only reason he's not pushing her down and going to his kid. He glances at John and receives an agreeing nod.

Fine. They'll wait.

John and Dean wander in the direction she pointed but neither sit; both preferring to pace as they watch the clock.

It's almost an hour before a woman in dark blue scrubs appears in the doorway. She scans the waiting room, always uncomfortable when the pale faces of anxious family members blink back at her. They all want good news about their sick or injured loved one, but that's rarely what she delivers. She double-checks her clipboard. "Sam Winchester's family?"

The question isn't even out of her mouth before two men are standing in front of her.

"Follow me," she says, leading them not to an exam room...but to a small consultation room.

John and Dean exchange glances as they walk.

"Nothing good is said in these rooms."

The nurse nods at John's statement, acknowledging that truth and sensing his personal experience with it. "Please..." She waves her hand toward the open door and waits for them to enter. "Have a seat. The doctor will be with you shortly."

The door shuts behind her with a soft click.

In fact, everything seems slower and quieter...but maybe that's because Dean's ears are ringing. He swallows, trying to remember how to breathe while also trying to convince himself this is not what they think. If Sam was gone, he would feel it – wouldn't he? He knows he would. He would _feel_ it.

John runs his hands through his hair, clasping them on top of his head as he stares at the ceiling. "This is not happening."

Not again.

He cannot live through this kind of loss a second time.

"Dad..."

John hears Dean speak. He knows his oldest is watching him, knows he needs to be strong for his son...but he doesn't think he can. If Sam is gone, he's done. This will be the thing that finally breaks him.

"Dad," Dean repeats, desperate for an anchor.

John turns, looking at him with a sadness so deep, it leaves no trace; his expression blank and empty.

Dean shakes his head, refusing to believe what his dad has already accepted.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the petite redhead says as she breezes into the room; her ponytail swishing behind her. She's dressed in the same dark blue scrubs all ER staff are wearing. "It's been a crazy night." She drops the folder on the table and flips the switch on the x-ray film illuminator mounted on the wall. "Like I always tell my mom, there's never a dull moment around here."

John and Dean glance at each other, then back at her.

"Who are you?"

"Oh!" She rolls her eyes at herself. "Sorry. I'm Dr. Bradbury, but you can call me Charlie." She steps forward, extending her hand to John. "I'm assuming you're Sam's dad?" She smiles as he nods and shakes her hand. She directs her attention to Dean. "And you're...Sam's brother?"

"Yeah," Dean says but doesn't shake her hand because he doesn't have time for pleasantries or polite bullshit. He only wants to know one thing. "Is Sam – "

"In surgery?" Charlie finishes, though that's not what Dean was going to ask. She nods. "Yes. They just took him down to the OR."

The news is met with stunned silence.

"So, he's not..." John swallows and stares at her, hoping the doctor understands his question and doesn't make him say it.

Charlie offers him a soft, kind smile. "No. Sam is not dead."

The confirmation startles a laugh out of Dean. He rubs his hand over his face, manic with happiness and feeling like John looks – wobbly with relief.

Charlie frowns at their reaction. "Here..." She pulls out two chairs. "Sit. One Winchester patient is enough. I don't need two more."

John releases a shaky breath to match the trembling in his hands and legs.

"Sit," Charlie repeats and waits until they both do so before perching on the edge of the table. She focuses on John. "Listen. I'm sorry if you've been in here all this time thinking...well..._that_." She cringes, unable to imagine the horror of believing your child is dead. "No parent should have to go through that."

"Or brother."

"Or brother," Charlie agrees with a smile and stands. She shuffles through her patient's chart, transitioning from doctor-with-caring-bedside-manner to physician-with-difficult-case. It's her least favorite version of herself, but it's necessary. Sharing scary details with a worried family is one of the hardest, most important parts of her job. She sighs and pulls several films from the folder. "Okay. So...Sam is alive, but he's extremely critical. He's lost close to half his blood volume and stopped breathing twice. Unfortunately for him, his low oxygen levels were doubly impacted by his internal injuries _and _the smoke inhalation."

"Smoke inhalation?" John echoes and looks at Dean.

Dean nods.

The revelation is a kick in John's chest. "His car caught on fire?" There's no other conclusion. He glares when Dean doesn't respond. "Answer me."

"Yes," Dean replies and shifts in his chair. He hates when his dad treats him like a kid, especially in front of an audience. He tries to ignore the doctor staring at them.

"Why am I just hearing about this?"

"Because it doesn't matter," Dean argues. "I got Sammy out, and we've got bigger problems now."

"You do," Charlie admits, snapping one of the films in place over the lighted box. "This is a contrast CT of Sam's thoracic cavity. His ribs are fractured on his left side here...here...and here." She points to the specific location of each break in each bone before snapping a different film over the illuminator. "Those fractures led to this – a contrast CT of his abdominal cavity."

Dean squints at the image, trying to make sense of the blobs in varying shades of white and gray. Everything looks the same except – "Why is that part so black?"

"That's blood," John answers and holds the doctor's gaze. "Right?"

"Yes," Charlie says, wondering about his past experience with traumatic injuries. "All of this..." She waves her hand over the expansive black area. "...is blood."

"From where?" Dean demands.

"His spleen." Charlie makes a fist, then holds it midway her chest on the left side. "The spleen is about this big and sits here under the left rib cage. When Sam's ribs fractured, they punctured his spleen, causing a splenic rupture." She pauses, allowing them to absorb the information. "Blood is leaking from Sam's ruptured spleen into his abdomen. In fact, there's so much of it, it's _distending_ his abdomen. I can tell he's usually a thin kid, but right now, he's got a potbelly full of blood."

John and Dean stare at her, speechless.

"Which reminds me – are either of you Sam's blood type?"

"I am," Dean tells her. "He can have all of it."

Charlie smiles at the selfless big brother. She has no doubt Dean would bleed himself dry if it meant saving Sam. "We won't take all of it, but we'll certainly take some of it. Every pint helps in cases like this, and we prefer to use family donations whenever possible. I'll let one of our phlebotomists know, so they can draw your donation." She glances at the CT film glowing on the wall. "The massive internal hemorrhaging led to the dramatic drop in blood pressure. Sam's heart rate went sky high trying to compensate, and as I said, he stopped breathing twice."

John clenches his jaw. It's surreal to hear her talking about his child like this.

"We had to intubate," Charlie continues. "Chances of revival decrease with each code, so we couldn't risk it happening a third time." She gestures at the CT results. "This indicates Sam has a Grade IV...possibly Grade V laceration. The surgeon will know more once he can actually _see_ what he's dealing with, but I predict Sam will undergo a splenectomy."

"They're removing Sammy's spleen?"

"Yes," Charlie confirms. "Most likely. And that comes with its own set of concerns and potential complications...but...one thing at a time."

John nods. "What about Sam's head? Dean mentioned a head injury?"

"Oh, yes..." Charlie's tone sounds like it's an afterthought compared to Sam's other injuries. "There's a five-inch laceration across his forehead, and he sustained a Grade 3 concussion. The surgeon will place sutures. Sam will be on mandatory bed rest for weeks after his surgery, so the concussion should resolve within that time frame."

"And the smoke inhalation?"

Charlie smiles at Dean, appreciating his and John's thoroughness in making sure every concern is addressed and treated. "Sam will be on oxygen for several days. Possibly longer."

"Okay. Good," Dean says and stares at her, _needing_ to know one more thing. "Is this my fault?"

Charlie blinks. "What?"

"Why would you say that?"

Dean hears the confusion in his dad's voice but doesn't look at him as he continues to stare at the doctor. "I stood him up after the crash. Sam was awake and talking, but then...then _I_ stood him up, and he passed out."

Charlie nods. "Makes sense. Sam was already bleeding internally, so standing him up caused his blood pressure to drop like a rock...which led to loss of consciousness."

"So, it _is_ my fault."

Charlie shrugs. "Well, you can take the blame for causing him to pass out, but Sam's injuries and overall condition are not your fault...unless you forced him to get in the car tonight."

Dean's expression darkens. He didn't force Sam to do anything. He never would. He offered the kid a way out before the race, but Sam refused because he knew John's expectations.

"Look. I'm not trying to be judgmental. We all have our hobbies and accept the risks that come with them..._but..._" Charlie's gaze shifts between father and son. "I'm also a doctor. Every day, I see what happens when bad decisions are made...and I think it's irresponsible to allow a minor behind the wheel of a race car." She turns, collecting the CT films and switching off the illuminator. "I'll send the phlebotomist to collect your donation," she tells Dean as she arranges Sam's chart. "After that, you can both return to the waiting room. I'll let you know as soon as I receive an update from the OR."

"Thanks," John murmurs as she leaves the room, then arches an eyebrow when his oldest pushes away from the table. He watches Dean pace, sensing his renewed anger.

"This is _your_ fault!"

The accusation slices through the thick silence.

John scowls. "How do you figure that?"

"Because Sam only raced tonight for _you_," Dean fires back, standing at the end of the table. "He was scared about what Nick had planned and wanted to pull out...but he didn't because he knew you expected him to race. He didn't want to disappoint _you_, and now he's fighting for his fucking life!"

John can feel the curious glances of ER staff as they pass by the window; all of them accustomed to dealing with intense emotions in their line of work but still intrigued by the unfolding drama within the consultation room.

John knows he and Dean will be escorted out if they cause too much disruption, so he sits there – rubbing the bridge of his nose while trying to keep his shit together.

But Dean doesn't relent; his fear and worry causing him to lash out. "If Sam dies, it'll be _your_ fault. Just like Mom."

John reacts before he even realizes. He's on his feet and across the room, shoving Dean against the wall.

They stare at each other, breathing each other's air as their shared space seems to crackle with the enormity of the moment. Dean's words hang between them; the truth never spoken aloud until now when they are both at their most vulnerable.

John wants to deny it...but he knows he can't. He was supposed to be with Mary that night, and if he had been, he _knows_ he could have saved her. Instead, he was absent when she needed him most. It's an unforgivable regret made worse by an unimaginable loss.

John swallows, refusing to believe history is repeating itself; refusing to believe he might lose Sam because of something_ he_ did...or didn't do.

The standoff between father and son stretches before a soft knock announces company.

John turns as the door swings open, revealing a small brunette.

"Oh. Um..." She blinks at the scene. "Sorry. I'll come back."

"No, wait," John tells her and releases his hold on Dean. "It's fine. We were just...talking."

"If you say so..." she allows, sarcastic and indifferent. She doesn't care what they were doing. She just needs them to pause long enough for her to do her job. "Which one of you is donating blood?"

"I am," Dean answers, pushing past John and already rolling up his sleeve. "Take whatever you want."

"Well, that's a tempting offer," she teases, smiling as she sets up her equipment on the far end of the table.

Dean pulls a face, not in the mood to flirt. "Take whatever Sammy needs," he revises and sits in one of the chairs.

She nods. "I'm Ruby, by-the-way. And you are..."

"Dean."

"The patient's brother?"

"Yeah."

Ruby nods again as she presses the vein in the crook of Dean's elbow. "It's sweet of you to donate to your brother. Is this your first time giving blood?"

"No."

"Good," Ruby praises, readying her supplies. "I love donating blood. It's so crucial for patients, you know? I'd let them suck it right out of my arm if they could."

It's a weird thing to say.

Dean glances at his dad lingering in the corner of the room, watching them.

"I need some air," John announces and crosses to the door, disappearing into the hallway.

Once outside, he strides the length of the sidewalk; the back and forth repetition soothing his frayed nerves. He's on his fifth...maybe sixth lap when he hears it – the familiar rumble of an old pickup. He stops pacing to scan the parking lot, twitching a smile when he sees Bobby's truck pass beneath one of the streetlights.

A few seconds later, Bobby is walking toward him.

"Did you escape?"

Bobby snorts. "No. I was released."

"For good behavior?"

"Something like that," Bobby says. "You know me and Jody go way back."

John nods. He has heard the stories. "So, Sheriff Mills let you go as a personal favor?"

"Not quite," Bobby replies. "She told Crowley if he didn't drop the charges against me, she would arrest _him_ for unlawful obstruction."

"Unlawful obstruction of what?"

"The gate?" Bobby shrugs. It's his best guess since the sheriff didn't elaborate. "I didn't ask, and she didn't tell. Could be total bullshit for all I know. I was just glad to get the hell outta there and get here." He gives John a once-over. "Seems like I got here just in time, too. You look like shit."

"I _feel_ like shit," John confirms. "This has been one of the worst nights of my life."

Bobby nods. It's been one of the worst for him as well. The last time they faced a night like this was when they lost Mary. He sighs. "How's Sam?"

"He's in surgery. Broken ribs, ruptured spleen, concussion..." John shakes his head. "It's been touch and go."

Bobby swears under his breath. "Where's Dean?"

"Donating blood. Sam's lost a lot. Half his volume, the doctor said."

Bobby swears again, then narrows his eyes. "What else?"

John rubs the back of his neck where the stress has settled. "There's nothing else. I just told you."

"Not all of it," Bobby says, eyeing John like he suspects there's a reason _other _than blood donation separating him from his oldest. "What happened between you and Dean?"

The question hits John in his gut. He blinks, caught off guard by the sting of tears.

Bobby frowns at the unexpected response but waits, allowing John to tell him in his own time.

John sighs, then huffs an overwhelmed laugh. He sits on the edge of the concrete wall lining the hospital's flowerbeds, not surprised when Bobby joins him.

Over the years, they've faced their share of challenges just like this – side-by-side. But tonight, the weight seems too heavy, too crushing. If he's responsible for what happened to Sam, how is he supposed to live with that?

Several visitors come and go as they sit there – Bobby lending his quiet strength as John pulls himself together.

"Dean says Sam's crash is my fault. And if Sam dies...that'll be my fault, too."

Bobby stares at him. "Well..."

John ducks his head, bracing for a full endorsement of Dean's accusation.

"That's bullshit."

John cuts his eyes at the old man sitting beside him, certain he misheard. "What?"

"That's bullshit," Bobby repeats. "Sam's crash is _Nick's_ fault, not yours."

John glares at the mention of that dick. "He's the one who caused it, but _I'm_ the one who made Sam race tonight."

"That'll be the day," Bobby drawls. "Sam is stubborn as hell. Nobody is makin' that kid do anything he doesn't wanna do...and nobody is changin' his mind once it's set." He pauses. "Before the race tonight, Dean told Sam he could pull out. But Sam said no."

John tilts his head at the new information.

Bobby sighs. "You know...I thought about kicking your ass the whole way here."

John chuckles at the sudden change in topic, tired but amused. "Is that a warning?"

"Just a fact," Bobby replies. "But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this ain't your fault, John. The only thing you're guilty of is raisin' a brave kid." He smiles at the thought of their lanky, tough-as-nails squirt. "The Duke always said courage is being scared but saddlin' up anyway. That's what Sam did tonight. He saddled up and faced down his own devil. If he wanted to make us proud, he damn sure did."

"He did," John agrees and smiles because only Bobby could do this. Only Bobby could give an inspiring speech based off a John Wayne quote while sitting outside a hospital. Only Bobby could put a positive spin on the cluster that defined tonight. Only Bobby could make him feel like he's not a complete fuck-up when it comes to being a dad.

They sit there in silence until Dean wanders out of the ER's sliding doors, looking surprised but happy to see Bobby alongside John.

"Did you escape?"

Bobby snorts at the same question John had asked. "No. Released."

Dean nods but doesn't ask how or why. He's just glad to see his uncle.

Bobby gestures to Dean's arm. "How did that go?"

Dean shrugs. "Fine." He looks at John, then back to Bobby. "Do you think there's any decent coffee around here?"

"Doubt it," Bobby predicts. "But I'll go see what I can hunt down." He stands and walks toward the hospital, recognizing the errand for what it is – an opportunity for Dean to be alone with John.

Dean waits for Bobby to disappear inside, then takes his place beside his dad on the concrete wall.

John glances at him but doesn't speak.

Dean sighs. He hates when there's awkward tension between them. "Dad. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I said...especially about Mom."

John continues to stare at him.

Dean sighs again. "Truth is, I'm glad you weren't there that night."

John frowns.

"Maybe you could've saved her," Dean allows. "But maybe not. Maybe you would've died, too. Maybe me and Sammy would've been left without a mom _or_ a dad. Maybe we would've been separated or put in foster care or...who knows?"

John shakes his head. The day Dean was born, he and Mary had developed a Plan B in case something ever happened to them; not just a spoken promise between friends but signed, legal documents. "Bobby would've taken you both. He would've raised you."

Dean twitches a smile. He had always figured that. "We love Uncle Bobby, Dad...but he's not you." He pauses. "I really am sorry for what I said earlier. What happened to Mom isn't your fault...and what happened to Sam isn't your fault, either."

John nods, accepting the apology, and wraps his arm around Dean's shoulders. Several seconds pass before he gives his oldest a rough pat across his back. "Let's head inside."

"Yeah," Dean agrees and follows John's lead; both settling into the waiting room as Bobby returns with three cups of lukewarm coffee.

"It's the best I could find," he tells them as he takes his seat on the other side of John.

They sit together, splitting their attention between the clock and the TV on the wall.

An hour passes...then another.

The intro music for the 11:00 News blares across the room, with the anchorman staring straight at them.

"Good evening. I'm Kevin Tran. We start with breaking news tonight," he says, turning to face a different studio camera as footage from Crowley's racetrack fills the screen. Red and blue lights flash in the distance as the cameraman focuses on a car engulfed in flames.

"That's..." John stares at the screen, horrified by the sight. "That's Sam's car."

Firemen surround the inferno, yelling at each other as water cascades on the blaze. The cameraman lingers on the shot, then pans to the right to show EMTs working on someone stretched out on the track.

Dean swallows as he sees himself crouched beside Sam, holding his little brother's hand.

John glances at his son before glancing at Bobby. They should've been there for their boys instead of dealing with Crowley's bullshit at the opposite end of the track.

"Twenty-one-year old Dean Winchester pulled his 17-year old brother, Sam Winchester, both drivers for _Winchester and Sons,_ from his burning car following a catastrophic wreck during tonight's race," Kevin reports, his professional broadcaster voice sounding detached even as the chaos continues onscreen. "The younger Winchester was transported to Memorial Hospital with life-threatening injuries, but his current condition is unknown. Their father and owner of_ Winchester and Sons_, John Winchester, was unable to be reached for comment. Family friend and racing legend, Bobby Singer, was also unable to be reached. Singer was spotted in the back of a police car leaving the scene after he assaulted the racetrack's owner and operator, Mark 'Crowley' Sheppard. While details of the assault are unclear, our sources report charges have been dropped, and Singer has already been released from custody."

Bobby rolls his eyes, not seeing how _that's_ newsworthy at all. It's not the first time he's been arrested, and it likely won't be the last.

"Multiple other collisions and serious injuries occurred during tonight's race as Winchester's wreck set off a chain reaction." Kevin pauses as new footage rolls. The cameraman scans the track, showing the carnage; some cars damaged beyond repair, others on fire like Sam's. Bloodied drivers are seen standing near their cars as rescue workers crowd the track along with spectators eager to help. "Sadly, one fatality has been reported."

John, Dean, and Bobby look at each other.

"Who?" Dean asks, receiving a shrug and a head shake before a familiar face stares back at them from the TV.

"Mark 'Nick' Pellegrino was a longtime driver at the track. He was known for being reckless and ruthless behind the wheel, but in recent years, Pellegrino was best known for his rivalry with the Winchester family. Our sources tell us he was responsible for tonight's initial crash, which led to the wreck that claimed his life. Pellegrino was pronounced dead at the scene."

The studio camera shows Kevin shuffling his notes as he transitions to another story.

"In other news..."

His words are a hum in the background as John, Dean, and Bobby sit there, stunned.

"Wow," Dean blurts, wondering if he's the only one feeling happy and satisfied. "Didn't see that coming."

"Me, neither," John replies. "But good riddance."

Bobby nods his agreement. It's convenient when karma handles his dirty work. "One less thing to take care of."

Dean arches an eyebrow at Bobby's casual tone; his uncle sounding like a hitman whose list just got shorter. He smiles.

At least one good thing has happened tonight. Now if they could just get an update on Sam...

Dean glances at the double doors and sighs as another hour passes.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

It's close to 2am when John, Dean, and Bobby are led to another consultation room.

"Doctor..." the nurse calls, lingering in the doorway after ushering them inside. "This is Sam's father, brother, and..." She hesitates, unsure of Bobby's connection to the family.

"Uncle," he tells her.

She smiles and nods her thanks for his help in completing introductions, then closes the door as a tall man in a white coat turns to face them.

Bobby blinks with instant recognition. "Well, ain't this a kick in the balls..."

The man snorts. "Whose – yours or mine?"

"Both," Bobby replies with a chuckle since he knows neither of them expected to see each other again after that night in Omaha. "How long has it been?"

"Not long enough," the man answers; his gruff tone more teasing than serious. "How the hell have you been, Singer?"

Bobby shrugs. "Can't complain."

"I bet you still do, though."

Bobby doesn't deny it as he glances at John and Dean. "This is Rufus Turner."

"_Dr._ Rufus Turner. I'm a pediatric surgeon now."

Bobby rolls his eyes at the correction. "You'll always be just Rufus to me."

"And you'll always be a pain in my ass."

Bobby smirks.

"You said you're Sam's uncle?"

"That's right."

Rufus grunts his confusion as his gaze slides to John, then back to Bobby. If he squints, _maybe_ he can detect a sliver of resemblance. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"I don't. But family don't end with blood."

"No, it doesn't," Rufus agrees, smiling as the familiar motto stirs forgotten memories.

Dean sighs. It's nice to see Bobby reconnect with an old friend, but he doesn't have patience for this. He steps between his uncle and the doctor. "How's Sam? Can we see him?"

Rufus bristles at the interruption but appreciates the reminder that he's not here to catch up with Bobby Singer; he's here to discuss the kid he just operated on for the past four hours. He gestures at the chairs around the table. "Have a seat."

"We'll stand," John says, speaking for all of them. They've sat enough for one night. "Just tell us about my son."

"Alright," Rufus replies. "I'll start with what you already know – your boy is in rough shape. Death wanted him bad, but Sam shook the old bastard off..._twice_." He smiles as he thinks about it; always proud of his patients when they turn out tougher than they look. "Sam was in critical condition, his vitals borderline when he arrived in my OR. Splenic rupture with Grade IV laceration was suspected, but once I made the incision, it was clear that diagnosis was both premature and overly optimistic." He shakes his head. "Sam's spleen sustained a Grade V laceration, causing significant hemorrhaging and complete devascularization."

Dean frowns. "What does that mean?"

"It means it was busted to shit."

Rufus nods at Bobby's blunt translation. "His spleen couldn't be saved or repaired, so I removed it."

"Shit," John hisses, uneasy with the idea of his child losing an organ. "Can Sam survive without it?"

"Yes," Rufus assures. "Your son can live without his spleen. He'll just need to take precautions from now on."

John exchanges a look with Dean. "What kind of precautions?"

"Well..." Rufus begins. "Recommendations differ for each patient depending on medical history, prognosis, and lifestyle...but for starters, we recommend vaccines for pneumococcus, meningococcus, and influenza type B. Those are typically given 14 days after surgery. Sam will also be on antibiotics for at least a year."

"Why?" Dean asks, hating the implication that his healthy, strong little brother will become sick and fragile.

"The spleen plays a crucial role in our bodies' ability to fight certain bacteria, so living without it will put Sam at a higher risk for life-threatening infections."

Dean narrows his eyes at the explanation. Life-threatening infections? Fuck. How is he supposed to protect his kid from microscopic threats? As if he doesn't already have enough to worry about...

"However," Rufus adds, sensing the big brother's concern. "The combination of vaccines and antibiotics should prevent Sam from getting sick."

Dean arches an eyebrow. "Should?"

"Nothing is guaranteed," Rufus points out. "Sam will need to update his vaccinations each year and take his medication as prescribed...though the daily antibiotics may be discontinued as he gets older since most adults do not require them." He pauses. "Of course, even with antibiotics, Sam will still be susceptible to viruses...but those will be dealt with as they occur. Viral infections are mostly treated with comfort measures since they do not respond to antibiotics."

John watches Dean as the doctor talks, knowing his oldest is contemplating never allowing their youngest to leave the house again. It's not a bad idea. They're now living in a dangerous new world where the simplest cold could cause major complications for Sam.

"Can the squirt still live a normal life?"

Rufus glances at Bobby, surprised by the endearing nickname. He never expected to see the old grump so invested in a kid. "It'll be a _new_ normal – both for him and for you."

"Meaning?"

Rufus shrugs at John's question. "Every family is different, but the biggest change is becoming more aware of germs. If someone is sick, your son should not be around them. That's especially true this first year as his body adjusts to having a gap in his immune system."

"So, you're saying we should keep Sam at home?"

Rufus huffs a light chuckle. "No. You can't keep Sam in a bubble."

"Why not?"

Rufus smiles at the protective big brother. "Listen. I know you're all worried and want to do what's best for Sam. But after he's fully recovered, he can go back to his life. He can return to school and all other activities. He can even return to racing if – "

"No."

Rufus blinks as three voices speak in unison; Sam's father, brother, and uncle rejecting the possibility of their kid ever sitting behind the wheel of another race car. "That's probably a decision you should discuss with Sam," he advises, his gaze shifting between them. "I don't keep up with sports, but from what I've heard over the past few hours, Sam was beginning to make a name for himself on the track. He showed potential. What happened tonight was a setback, but maybe you should consider allowing him to – "

"No," they repeat.

Rufus lifts his hands in surrender, recognizing a lost battle when he sees it. "Well, you have time to think about it," he tells them, keeping his comments diplomatic and professional. "Sam will be in the hospital for at least a week...maybe several weeks, depending on his progress."

"Sammy's still that serious?"

"Yes," Rufus confirms. "Removing Sam's spleen eliminated the immediate danger of him bleeding out, but he is still in critical condition. He lost a _massive_ amount of blood, and although it's been replenished with multiple transfusions, he remains dangerously weak. His vitals are inconsistent – stable one minute, unstable the next – and he's still not breathing on his own."

Dean looks at John.

"How long before he _is_ breathing on his own?"

"Hard to say," Rufus admits, wishing he had a more concrete answer for the concerned father. "We take cases like this one day at a time. Hell...one _hour_ at a time."

It's a difficult truth to swallow.

"Is he awake?"

Rufus shakes his head. "No. Sam has a lot of healing to do, so he's heavily sedated. We want to encourage his body to rest and begin repairing itself. Plus, if he's unconscious, he won't fight the ventilator." He pauses, allowing them to absorb the information. "If all goes well, in a few days, we'll begin to wake him and wean him from assisted breathing. Until then, we'll keep him comfortable and monitor for signs of infection."

"Can I see him?" Dean asks, overwhelmed with the need to be with his little brother.

"No," Rufus answers, ignoring the disappointment in Dean's expression. "Sam is in the PICU and in good hands."

"The what?"

"Pediatric ICU," Rufus translates. "Those nurses are assigned only one patient, so Sam will receive her undivided attention tonight. You can see him tomorrow during visiting hours. For now, I suggest you go home and get some rest."

Dean pulls a face. "Fuck that."

It's the most ridiculous suggestion he's ever heard. He's expected to leave the hospital...and therefore, leave Sam? Alone? With strangers?

Yeah, right. That's happening.

"Dean..."

"What?" Dean snaps, cutting his eyes at John. "How am I supposed to go home and sleep like everything's fine when Sammy's in ICU?"

"It's just for a few hours."

Dean scowls at his dad's voice of reason. "I'm not leaving."

"Suit yourself," Rufus says with a shrug. It makes no difference to him. His shift is over, and he's heading home. "Stay as long as you want. Just don't cause any trouble," he warns, then glances at John. "That goes for you, too."

"What about me?"

Rufus snorts. He knows better than to expect Bobby Singer to behave. The man has already been arrested once tonight. "I'm not even wasting my breath on you."

Bobby chuckles as Rufus crosses to the door and disappears into the hallway.

John sighs. He understands Dean's refusal to leave Sam, but he also knows his oldest needs to rest. Dean will run himself ragged for his little brother if John doesn't set limits. "Dean. I don't need _two _sons in the hospital."

Dean scoffs like John is being dramatic. "Dad. I'm fine. I'll rest as soon as I see Sam."

"That won't happen for several hours."

"We'll see."

John narrows his eyes, suspicious of his son's plans. "Dean."

"You should go," Dean announces, holding John's gaze before glancing at Bobby. "Both of you."

Bobby twitches a smile. "You kickin' us out?"

"Yes," Dean answers, blunt and honest. He needs space to work his charm, and they need something else to occupy their time instead of hanging around the hospital staring at each other. "I'm not saying go home and sleep like a baby...but maybe head back to the track. Clean up all our shit before somebody _takes_ all our shit."

Bobby nods. "He's got a point," he tells John. "We did just leave everything."

John nods as well, picturing their abandoned trailer in the pit – its doors flung open, their tools and gear scattered around. He doesn't know where Dean left his car or if Sam's car is even worth hauling back to the garage.

"Dad?"

"I hear you," John replies. "I'm just..." He rubs his hand over his face, torn between taking care of the family business and taking care of his family. "I'm just thinking."

"I know what you're thinking," Dean says, because it's the rock and hard place John always feels trapped between. "But it's fine. You and Bobby take care of that, and I'll take care of Sammy."

John smiles. "I know you will." He grasps Dean's shoulder, giving it a hard squeeze. "We'll be back in a few hours. Call if you need us before then."

"Yes, sir."

John squeezes his son's shoulder again, then turns to leave with Bobby following.

Dean sighs as he's left alone in the consultation room. He scans the hectic ER through the window, looking for an easy mark before deciding none of these nurses can help him. The ICU wing is where he needs to be, flashing his green eyes and sincerest smile.

Dean nods in agreement with himself and heads back to the waiting room; his finger sliding down the directory on the wall until he finds the floor housing the pediatric intensive care unit.

He smiles, feeling calmer just knowing where his little brother is in the expansive building.

"I'm coming, Sammy," he whispers as he makes his way to the elevators.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

The pediatric intensive care unit is locked down like Fort freakin' Knox.

"Balls," Dean grumbles, channeling his inner Bobby as he peers around the corner. He didn't expect to walk in like he owned the joint, but he also didn't expect this level of restriction.

From where he's standing down the hall, he can see two separate double glass doors accessed by two separate badge readers. He counts at least four cameras aimed at each door, and there's a sign on the wall listing the unit's rules in bold red font.

**Visitors permitted during the following hours: 10am-12pm and 2-4pm**

**Each patient is allowed ONE visitor at a time. No exceptions.**

**ALL visitors must wash their hands before and after entering the unit. **

**When required, visitors MUST adhere to contact precautions (gowns, gloves, masks, etc.) **

**ALL visitors must keep their conversations quiet and minimal. **

**ALL visitors must silence their cellphones and other electronic devices.**

**FAILURE TO ADHERE TO THESE RULES AND/OR FOLLOW ADDITIONAL INSTRUCTIONS PROVIDED BY MEDICAL STAFF WILL RESULT IN REVOKED VISITING PRIVILEGES!**

Dean cringes at the warning. On one hand, he's glad they're taking their job of protecting Sam as seriously as he does...but on the other hand, his plans just got a little trickier. He sighs, steadying his nerves as he prepares to make his move. "You got this," he tells himself and strides toward the first set of doors like they will magically open for him.

They don't.

Dean sighs again, feeling like a doofus as he stands there staring through the glass.

The unit is dark; the only sources of light coming from the soft glow surrounding the nurses' station in the center and filtering from a few of the rooms along the perimeter. It's also quiet. Most of the nurses are either updating their patients' charts or watching them on the individual monitors hanging from the ceiling. The only activity is at the far end of the unit.

Dean frowns as he watches one nurse call to another. He can't see their expressions, but their urgent movements imply a crisis is unfolding – the kind that requires backup. The flashing yellow strobe beside the patient's door supports that assumption...especially when all other rooms are marked by a steady green light.

Dean's skin prickles with dread as a third nurse rushes toward the room. The scene is scary enough without the overwhelming sense that his little brother is the patient requiring so much attention.

Dean pushes against the glass doors, testing their strength...then eyes the seam in the middle, wondering if he can pry them open. He's confident he can and is reaching to try when a voice startles him.

"You know I can see you, right?"

Dean blinks and drops his hands to his sides.

The voice snorts. "Let me guess – this isn't your first time breaking and entering."

Dean glares, realizing whoever has been watching him this entire time on the cameras is now talking to him through the small speaker mounted beside the double doors. He knew gaining access to the PICU after hours wasn't going to be easy, but he didn't expect the gatekeeper to be a judgy prick spying on him from above.

Dean presses the button on the speaker to activate two-way communication. "Listen..." he begins, willing himself to keep cool. He'd rather use his charms on women, but he can smooth talk anyone – including the guy on the other end of this box. "I'm sorry. I'm not trying to cause trouble. I just...I need to see my brother."

"Come back during visiting hours."

"No!" Dean snaps, his patience vanishing as his need to be with Sam increases by the second. Chaos continues to erupt at the far end of the unit, and he_ knows_ his kid is in that room. "I have to see him! _Now_."

The voice sighs but doesn't respond.

"Hey!" Dean yells, staring straight at the camera. "I know you can hear me!"

The answering silence fuels his anger and frustration.

"Hey!" he repeats, banging on the glass doors with his fists. If the voice won't help him, maybe someone in the unit will. "Hey!"

Several nurses scowl in his direction, but it's a lanky guy wearing a security uniform that approaches the doors. He looks as threatening as a 12-year old dressed up for Halloween.

Dean wants to ask if he rented that costume or if his mom made it, but he swallows the smartass comment and forces a smile as the guy turns the lock. "Hey, man. Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet," the guy drawls, talking to Dean through the crack he's pried between the automatic doors. "The man upstairs is pissed."

Dean figures he's referring to whoever was watching him on the cameras and being a dick over the speaker.

"My boss wants me to throw you out but...I really don't want to."

"No, you don't," Dean agrees because that would not end pretty. He could break this guy in half without even trying.

The guy nods, seeming to understand that.

Dean stares at him, noticing the guy's badge and knowing people are more likely to grant a favor if they feel a personal connection. "Garth."

The guy tilts his head, then huffs a laugh when he realizes how this stranger knows his name.

"I'm Dean, and my little brother is in this unit." It sounds like he's introducing himself to a support group...but Garth frowns his sympathy, so Dean continues. "I know you're just doing your job. It's a huge responsibility, and you take it seriously."

Garth nods. "Thanks for saying that. Most people around here don't get it."

"I get it," Dean assures. "And I appreciate it," he adds, which isn't complete bullshit. He does appreciate this guy keeping people out of the PICU and away from Sam. "Just like you protect this whole unit, I protect my brother. He's my responsibility. There's nothing I take more seriously."

Garth nods again.

"That's why I _need_ to see him," Dean explains and knows he's making progress when Garth nods a third time. Victory is so close...and yet so far away as a petite blond nurse storms toward the doors. Even before she speaks, Dean can tell she's _done_ with the commotion his intrusion is causing. He dusts off his best manners. "Ma'am, I – "

"Save it," she spits, coming to stand beside Garth. "I don't care who you are or what you want. All I care about is our patients, and every time you speak, that patient's heart rate spikes."

Dean glances in the direction she points – at the room with the flashing yellow light.

"He just got out of surgery," she continues, as if she thinks she can convince Dean to leave if she outlines the situation. "He should be resting quietly, but we can't get him stabilized because of you. His overall condition has only worsened since you got here, so just – "

"Is his name Sam?"

The nurse blinks like the question slapped her. She narrows her eyes, suspicious of how this stranger would know that information...until she glances at his _Winchester and Sons_ t-shirt and puts two-and-two together. She can feel him staring at her, waiting for an answer, and tries to keep her expression neutral as she meets his gaze. "I can't tell you that."

"You just did," Dean replies, shifting his attention to the far end of the unit. He's trying to decide his next move when the yellow strobe switches to red.

Both the nurse and security guard turn as a symphony of alarms begin to blare.

Dean takes their distraction as his opportunity. He shoulders through the double doors, snatching the nurse's badge as he pushes past her and Garth. He swipes the ID, gaining access through the second door while dodging the other nurses attempting to block his path. "Sammy!" he calls, running toward the room where all hell is breaking loose. "Sammy!"

The three nurses crowding the bed block his view, but Dean knows they're tending to Sam.

He _knows _it.

"Sammy..." he calls again, quieter and calmer as he stands in the doorway, trying to soothe his little brother with his voice and his presence.

It works.

Within seconds, the alarms stop blaring; their silence abrupt and jarring. The monitors' frantic beeps begin to transition to a slower, steadier cadence. The red light flashing its warning outside the door skips yellow and goes straight to green, indicating a stable patient.

Dean smiles at the instant response even as his own heart continues to hammer. "That's my boy," he murmurs and takes a deep breath, trying to ease his lingering panic.

Three unfamiliar faces turn to stare at him – only their eyes visible above their surgical masks.

"Who _are_ you?"

Dean can't help but chuckle at the amazement in the nurse's muffled voice. "I'm his brother."

"My goodness..." the nurse remarks, shaking her head at the wonder of what she just witnessed. "I've never seen anything like that. I've been trying to stabilize this child for almost an hour, then you walk in and he settles right down." She glances between her patient and his miracle-working brother. "They should've let you in sooner."

Dean hums his agreement. He likes this woman already, and if she keeps this attitude, they're going to get along just fine.

"I'm Ellen. I'm the charge nurse for this shift."

"I'm Dean."

"Nice to meet you...though I'm sorry it's under these circumstances."

"Yeah. Me, too."

Ellen's heart aches at the quiet response. She understands the PICU can be an unnerving place and glances at the other two women, allowing Sam's brother a moment to adjust. "Nice hustle, ladies. Thank you," she tells them. "You can return to your patients now. I think we can take it from here."

The use of "we" only strengthens Dean's opinion of her – this nurse already aware that caring for Sam became a partnership the second his big brother arrived.

The two nurses strip their gowns, gloves, and masks, and glance at Dean as they wash their hands in the corner sink before leaving the room.

Dean stares at Sam, having a clear view of his little brother now that only one nurse is standing beside the bed. "He looks so small."

"I know. They always do," Ellen admits. "Even teenagers look small when they're in here." She runs a gentle hand across Sam's forehead; her gloved fingers brushing his bangs away from his eyes and revealing inflamed, puffy skin held together by a dark line of stitches.

Dean frowns at the reminder of Sam's head wound. "Wow. I forgot about that."

"Understandable," Ellen replies, hearing the tinge of guilt in Dean's voice. "It's hard to keep track of everything, especially when your brother sustained a more significant, life-threatening injury."

Dean nods as he scans every inch of his little brother, taking in Sam's ashen skin and bruised eyes. He tracks the wires and tubes coming from everywhere...including the one protruding from Sam's mouth. That's the hardest one to handle, yet it's the one he stares at the longest before his gaze flickers to the multiple monitors and IVs. Out of all the equipment, the ventilator is the most upsetting; the machine producing a rhythmic whoosh every few seconds as it breathes for his kid.

Dean can feel Sam's nurse watching him as he blows out a shaky breath of his own, overwhelmed with how fragile Sam looks as he lies motionless in the bed – as if the weight of the blanket will crush him.

"It's a lot to take in."

"Yeah," Dean whispers, then turns as the nurse from earlier stomps toward him with Garth trailing behind.

"I'm calling security!"

"Um, hello?" Garth says, waving his hand at himself.

The nurse ignores him, focusing instead on Dean. "Give me that!" she demands, grabbing her ID from his grasp. "You have some nerve! Practically pushing me down, stealing my badge, barging in here unauthorized..." Her blond ponytail bounces as she lists his offenses. "I hope they haul your ass out of here and straight to jail!"

Dean stares at her, unfazed by her threats. He will not apologize for doing whatever it took to reach Sam...and he will not apologize for what happens now if they try to remove him from his brother's bedside. The stunt he just pulled at the PICU's entrance will pale in comparison.

Ellen frowns as Sam's vitals begin to elevate. "Jo..." she calls, attempting to prevent further escalation since she knows Sam is reacting to the scene unfolding in the doorway.

Dean knows it, too. "Is he okay?"

"I hope they permanently ban you from this unit!"

"Jo."

"I hope they ban you from this entire hospital!"

"Jo."

"I hope – "

"Joanna Beth!" Ellen snaps, her composure slipping as Sam becomes increasingly upset by the endless ranting. "That's _enough_."

Dean arches an eyebrow, surprised by the double name and clipped tone. Sam's nurse is trying to maintain professional distance, but there's a distinct sense the sharp reprimand was more parental than hierarchal. This is not a supervisor reminding a subordinate of her place; this is a mom telling her daughter to stop throwing a tantrum.

There's a beat of silence filled with erratic beeping.

Dean scans the monitors surrounding his brother's bed but has no idea what he's looking at. "Is Sam okay?"

"He will be," Ellen assures. "As soon as there's one less person in this room."

Jo smirks, smug and pleased with herself...until she realizes Dean isn't the one being told to leave. Her eyes widen as Ellen pins her with a hard stare. "Me?"

"Yes."

"Are you serious?" Jo asks, her voice rising every time she speaks. "You're taking his side? After what he did to get back here?"

"Dean's not the one upsetting my patient," Ellen replies, cool and calm. "Sam was finally quiet and resting until you showed up ranting like a lunatic."

Jo scoffs at the description and glares at Dean. "So, let me get this straight – he breaks into our unit, but _I'm _the lunatic?"

"Jo..." Ellen begins, done with the drama. "Go back to your station before I have you escorted out of here."

Jo pulls a face. "Yeah, right."

Ellen arches an eyebrow, accepting the challenge without saying a word. She motions for Garth lingering in the hall.

Garth cringes but steps forward. "Um, Ms. Harvelle..."

Jo's ponytail whips the air as she jerks away from his reach. "Don't touch me!"

Garth holds up his hands, giving her space as she shoves past him and disappears down the short corridor. He glances at Ellen. "She's a pistol."

Ellen hums like she can think of a few other words.

Garth chuckles and turns to leave, patting Dean's back before he goes. "See you 'round, man."

Dean nods, distracted as he watches Sam.

Ellen watches him as well, waiting for his vitals to stabilize. When they do, she shifts her attention from her patient to her patient's brother still standing in the doorway. "Do you cause this much trouble everywhere you go?"

"Not everywhere," Dean answers, frowning at the sudden beep that occurs every time he speaks. "What _is_ that?"

"Sam's heart rate."

Dean's frown deepens. "Is he okay?"

Ellen nods, finally understanding why that same split-second increase occurred multiple times even before Dean was in the room. "It makes sense now," she comments, realizing Sam could hear Dean across the unit. That's why his condition was deteriorating. He was agitated by their separation and wanted his big brother. It's as simple as that. "Sam's heart rate spikes whenever he hears your voice."

Dean smiles, his own heart swelling with love. "Really?"

The heart monitor beeps again – loud and quick.

Ellen laughs. "I think you have your proof." Her gaze drifts between the brothers. "You two must be close."

Dean nods. "Yeah. Sam is..." He swallows, surprised by the emotion tightening his throat. It's not his nature to be candid with strangers. "Sam is everything."

He doesn't say it, but the last part is implied – Sam is everything _to me_.

Ellen's smile is reflected in her eyes as she stares at Dean over the edge of her mask. "I can tell."

Dean nods again, then clears his throat, uncomfortable with the intimacy of the moment. "Listen, um...thanks for letting me stay."

"Why wouldn't I?" Ellen counters. "It's my job to give patients what they need, and right now, Sam needs you."

Dean's smile returns, thankful this nurse seems to understand their bond.

"Plus, it's fun to bend the rules," she confides with a wink. "Now wash your hands and suit up."

Dean eyes the yellow gowns stacked on the counter just inside the room along with a box of light blue gloves and another box of white surgical masks.

"I'm sure Dr. Turner stressed the importance of infection control, but it can't be overstated. Sam's immune system is compromised now, so he's on contact precautions. Anyone who comes in this room – whether they're staying for two seconds or two hours – _must_ wear a gown, gloves, and mask."

"Will we have to do this when he goes home?"

"I doubt it," Ellen replies. "Contact precautions are most important during the first 48 to 72 hours. That's when we're most worried about infection. And with Sam, we're even more worried. Poor kid's already running a slight fever."

The news induces immediate panic.

"What?"

"It's probably nothing," Ellen assures. "Post-operative fevers are quite common, especially in children since surgery is more stressful on their bodies. And frankly, given the traumatic nature of Sam's injury, a fever is to be expected at this stage."

Dean nods, trying to stay calm as he dries his hands and slips one of the flimsy gowns over his clothes. "He's on antibiotics, right?"

"Yes," Ellen confirms. "He's actually on two." She gestures to the clear bags hanging from the IV pole. "He also has pain medication, a sedative, and now the fever reducer."

"That's a lot."

"It is," Ellen agrees, hearing the concern in Dean's voice. "It's a lot for his system to tolerate, but hopefully we can wean at least two of those in a few days."

"When can we wean that?" Dean asks, waving one gloved hand at the ventilator. He _hates_ seeing that tube shoved down Sam's throat.

"That's trickier," Ellen admits. "There are several factors we must consider...but I promise we'll extubate as soon as we can since ventilated patients are at a higher risk of developing pneumonia."

"Pneumonia?" Dean echoes, his stress level increasing with every mention of another possible complication. "Sam can't get pneumonia."

"I know," Ellen replies. "It would certainly be one of the worst-case scenarios. His lungs are already weak from the smoke inhalation and deep, unassisted breathing will be difficult due to his broken ribs and healing incision."

"So..." Dean prompts, positioning one of the surgical masks over his nose and mouth before tying it in place. "How do we protect him?"

"We're already doing it with infection control, limited visitors, and antibiotics. Hopefully the combination of those measures will keep pneumonia and everything else at bay. Plus, now that he's stable and resting, his body has a chance to fight."

Dean nods as he approaches the bed. "Why is he so pale?"

"That's the blood loss," Ellen explains. "The transfusions helped stabilize him, but it'll take weeks for his color to return to normal."

Dean nods again as his gaze sweeps over his little brother. He wants to touch Sam, but he doesn't want to hurt him. Every inch of his kid seems to be covered with an electrode or needle or wire attaching to some other line or tube or machine. The room hums with medical equipment while Sam lays in the middle of it all – oblivious to how fragile he is.

Dean releases a shaky breath, balancing on the edge of emotion as the full impact of Sam's condition hits him in the chest.

"Dean," Ellen says, drawing his attention across the bed. "Sam won't break. I know it looks like he'll shatter if you touch him...but he won't. I promise." She runs her hand down Sam's arm as if to prove her point before crossing to the door. "I'll be back," she announces while stripping her gown, gloves, and mask. "If you need me, you can either page me..." She jerks her chin toward a red button on the wall as she washes her hands. "...or you can find me at the nurses' station."

"Nothing personal, but I hope we don't need you."

"That makes two of us."

Ellen smiles, and now that Dean can see her entire face, he thinks there's a hint of resemblance between her and Jo. Maybe they _are_ mother and daughter after all.

"Do me a favor. Actually...do _Sam_ a favor," she amends, already knowing Dean will do anything for his brother. She dries her hands, then motions to the chair in the corner. "Have a seat and try to relax. Remember – Sam can sense you. If you're calm, he'll stay calm."

Dean nods. He understands the responsibility even if he doesn't know how he'll accomplish it. How is he supposed to relax when there's a machine breathing for his little brother? How is he supposed to keep calm when Sam is _this_ pale, _this_ still, _this_ vulnerable?

Ellen breezes out of the room as Dean snags the edge of the chair with his foot, dragging it toward the bed without touching it. He sits, careful to keep his gloved hands clear of anything that might contaminate them. While he's never considered himself a germaphobe, he knows that description fits him now. Having a kid with a compromised immune system will do that.

Dean sighs and stares at Sam, wondering how they move forward from this. How can he let this kid out of his sight? How can he send Sam back to that petri dish called school? How can he let him go to college? How can he let him go _anywhere?_

"I'm not sure I can, Sammy," Dean admits, then smiles when the heart monitor spikes.

It's a cool trick – one that he hopes is exclusively his.

"If you have the same reaction to Dad's voice...or Bobby's...…I _will_ be disappointed."

The heart monitor spikes again.

Dean huffs a soft laugh and leans forward, his movements cautious and unsure. He feels like he's preparing to touch delicate porcelain instead of reaching for a hand he's held a million times.

_Sam won't break_, Ellen had told him, and he remembers Mary saying those same words that day she had nestled a squirming baby in his arms.

Dean ghosts a smile at the memory as he slips his hand beneath Sam's, marveling at how his brother is as tall as he is now...but his hand is still smaller. He smooths his thumb over Sam's knuckles, wishing he could erase the tiny, jagged scratches along with everything else that went wrong tonight.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his eyes misting as he relives the crash and its aftermath. "None of this should've happened. I should've looked out for you better."

Sam's heart rate spikes more than usual, and Dean takes it as a warning. He doesn't want to upset his brother by unloading his guilt. That's not Sam's burden to carry.

Dean inhales a deep breath, steadying his raw emotions as he covers Sam's hand with his larger palm, trying to warm him. "Are you cold?" he asks, concerned that his kid's hands are freezing while his cheeks are beginning to flush – as if all of Sam's body heat is being drawn to one area. "I don't like this, Sammy."

Not at all...especially since Ellen already mentioned a fever.

Dean tries not to dwell on it. He holds his little brother's hand in a gentle but firm grip as he listens to the beeping monitors and whooshing ventilator – the only sounds in the room. He doesn't intend to fall asleep while keeping watch but realizes that's what happened when he blinks awake. His face is pressed against the mattress, and he can sense the pressure of Sam's leg resting against the top of his head. He sighs, allowing himself a few more seconds to lay there when he feels what must have woke him – fingers twitching in his grasp.

Dean sits up quick enough to make the room spin. He shakes his head, scattering the dizziness, and focuses on the hazel eyes staring at him through thin slits. "Sammy..."

Sam's eyes close, then open with effort as he battles the pull of sedation. His unfocused gaze hints at the amount of medication pumping through his system, but even in his drugged drowsiness, he continues to stare straight at his big brother.

It's like the sun just came out in the middle of the night.

Dean smiles and leans closer so his brother can see him. "Sammy."

Sam shifts in the bed, restless and confused. He tries to turn his head, then gags when he realizes there's a tube down his throat.

Dean's smile disappears as he remembers Sam is not supposed to be awake. The kid was sedated for his own comfort and safety. "Sammy..." he calls, being careful as he reaches to restrain his panicked, struggling little brother. "Hey. Look at me. You're okay."

Sam squints like he recognizes the voice but not the face. The mismatch only seems to agitate him more.

"Shit," Dean hisses, reluctant to remove his mask. He doesn't want to spread germs...but he also doesn't want Sam to hurt himself. "Sammy. It's okay. It's me."

The monitors around the bed begin to beep faster as Sam's sluggish, uncoordinated movements become desperate and frantic. He's trying to process his surroundings, but they don't make sense. He doesn't remember what happened. He doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know why he's choking on a tube or why he's trapped in a nest of wires. Most of all – he doesn't understand how a stranger can speak with his brother's voice.

Dean's chest tightens with his own desperation as Sam continues to flail. His little brother is distressed and disoriented and _scared_, and Dean can't take it. "Hey, hey, hey..." he urges, using his free hand to untie the surgical mask and reveal his entire face. "Hey. Look. It's me. Okay? It's me. I'm right here."

Sam's reaction is immediate. He sags in Dean's grasp as he calms and quiets; the fear in his eyes replaced with relieved recognition.

"I'm right here," Dean repeats, thankful his kid is no longer thrashing. The last thing they need is a ripped IV line or busted stitches. "Right here, Sammy."

Sam sinks further into the bank of pillows propped behind him, drained by his burst of exertion.

Dean glances at the monitors as they return to normal, then looks back at Sam when he feels a light squeeze around his hand. The barely-there pressure testifies to Sam's weakness but still accomplishes its goal – attracting Dean's attention. He smiles down at his brother, giving a tender brush to the kid's bangs. "What, Sammy?"

Sam's eyes are almost closed. He's exhausted and pale; his fragility on full display as he lays there, staring up at his big brother with a mixture of sadness and confusion. He knows something is wrong, but he can't remember the details. The fog is too thick to recall what happened between the racetrack and this moment. He doesn't know why Dean is being so gentle with him...why he's too weak to lift his head...why there's a machine forcing air into his lungs...why he feels like he's floating away.

Dean watches as Sam's expression transitions from puzzled to upset. His little brother is overwhelmed by the uncertainly of his situation, and it breaks Dean's heart to see the tears rolling down his kid's flushed face. "Ah, Sammy..." he murmurs, swallowing against his own emotions. "You know this is my kryptonite, man." He forces a strained smile as he thumbs away the tears.

Sam leans into his touch; his eyes at half-mast as he continues to stare at his big brother, seeking comfort and reassurance.

Dean gives it without hesitation "It's okay," he soothes, even though it's not. He can feel the heat of rising fever in Sam's cheeks. "Go back to sleep. I'll be right here."

Sam blinks at him.

Dean's smile softens with affection as he slides his gloved hand into Sam's hair, fanning his fingers through the strands. It's a time-tested method of lulling his little brother to sleep...which works even quicker when there's already a sedative coursing through that little brother's system.

"There you go..." Dean whispers as Sam's eyes finally dip closed. "Just rest, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

The rhythmic cadence of the monitors fills the room as Dean continues to stroke Sam's hair, reluctant to stop in case his kid should wake. The ventilator repeats its cycle of an artificial inhale followed by an exhale while Dean blows out a breath of his own.

"You're good with him."

It's an unnecessary compliment since she had already told Dean as much when he had first arrived, but Ellen can't stop herself. In all her years of nursing, she's never witnessed a bond as strong as these two brothers share.

She smiles when Dean glances over his shoulder. "I heard the monitors, but by the time I got here, you were already handling Sam better than I could, so..." She pauses, allowing him to assume the rest. "If you're this good with all patients, maybe we should hire you."

"I've got a job."

Ellen nods as Dean turns his attention back to Sam. She knows he's referring to his lifelong career of being this kid's big brother, and it makes her love them even more. She lingers in the doorway, watching Dean watch Sam.

"Don't you have other patients?"

She doesn't since the pediatric ICU is one-on-one, but Ellen can take a hint. She ducks out of the room, giving the brothers their privacy. When she returns hours later, Dean is still in the same position – seated beside the bed, focused on Sam. She wonders if he's even blinked.

"You're back," he says without turning to look.

"I am," she confirms, expecting the annoyance in his voice to double when she tells him why she's there. "I need you to leave."

"What?"

Dean's tone is as sharp as his glare, but Ellen holds his gaze as she slips a yellow gown over her scrubs. "Just for a little while," she soothes, reaching for a mask. "We're changing shifts."

"Fine. Change." Dean shrugs like their schedule doesn't affect him. "I'll sit right here and stay out of the way."

Ellen has no doubt he would do just that but – "It's not that simple." She offers a shrug of her own, though hers is more apologetic. "This is one policy I must enforce. No visitors during shift change."

"That's bullshit."

Ellen responds with a soft laugh as she stretches her hands into a pair of gloves and crosses to the opposite side of the bed. "I can understand why you would think that, but I assure you it's not. It's what's best for Sam."

Dean narrows his eyes like he suspects she knows what she's doing by playing that card...and he's right. Although she's only known him for a few hours, Ellen knows Dean will do whatever is best for his little brother with no questions and no pushback.

Dean sighs as he stands, keeping his eyes on her and his hand on Sam. "I'm trusting you."

What isn't said is just as clear – I'm trusting you _with him_.

Ellen nods, accepting the responsibility while also trying to reassure an anxious big brother. "He'll be fine. And this shouldn't take long. I've already made Sam's new nurse aware of our arrangement, so you'll be allowed back in."

"I better be," Dean grumbles, giving Sam a final once-over before squeezing the kid's fingers and heading to the door to strip his gown, mask, and gloves. He washes his hands, then takes his time drying them, reluctant to leave.

Ellen knows he's stalling, can feel him watching her check the various machines surrounding Sam's bed. "Almost there," she teases about Dean's proximity to the hallway and the waiting room beyond. She's had an easier time kicking _parents_ out of rooms. The thought makes her glance at him with a hidden smile. "Go. Sam will be fine."

Dean wants to believe the repeated assurance, but his doubts are confirmed when he's two steps down the hall and hears Sam's monitors begin to elevate. He stops and turns, knowing his brother is reacting to his absence.

Dean's instincts draw him back to Sam, but he can see Ellen through the window waving him off as she leans over her patient, murmuring. He stares at the scene and wonders what she's saying. He hopes she's telling his kid that everything is okay, that his big brother will be _right back_, that –

"Go on now," an unfamiliar voice urges, kind yet stern. "Less gawking, more walking. The sooner we change shifts, the sooner you can be with your boy."

The logic makes sense, but Dean doesn't budge. He stares at the stranger decked out in protective gear and wonders if this is Sam's new nurse.

"You hear me? Or do I need to whack you with a spoon?" She laughs from behind her mask as Dean blinks at the odd threat. "Oh, honey. Don't worry. All my spoons are at home. Remember?" She winks like Dean is in on the joke, then disappears into Sam's room.

Dean tracks her movement as she crosses to his brother's bedside and speaks with Ellen. The nurses' attention shifts between their patient and the monitors, and although Dean can tell Sam's heart rate is higher than usual, the kid appears stable. No alarms are blaring, and the light beside his door is green.

"Hey, man. You still here?"

"Where else would I be?"

If Garth notices the irritation in Dean's tone, he doesn't react. He just shrugs as he saunters down the hall. "I don't know. Home?"

"Home isn't home without Sam," Dean says, more to himself than to the security guard standing beside him.

Garth nods anyway. "How's he doing?"

"Sammy's tough," Dean replies, sounding like the proud big brother he is as he continues to watch Ellen and the newcomer. "He'll pull through this."

"Damn right," Garth agrees as if he knew Sam prior to tonight. "C'mon." He bumps shoulders with Dean like they're old friends instead of acquaintances forced by the situation. "I'll walk you out."

Dean hesitates to follow, to turn his back on Sam and walk away. He's never been good at letting his little brother out of his sight, but the feat feels impossible now with Sam so fragile, so vulnerable. The kid can't even breathe for himself.

Garth hovers behind him, uncertain and waiting. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Dean replies when Ellen catches him staring through the window and tilts her head toward the exit. He takes the gesture for the warning it is and leaves the PICU while he's still in her good graces.

"See you later," Garth tells him as Dean squints in the brighter lights that greet them outside the ward. "Will you be here tonight?"

"Probably," Dean answers. If it was up to him, he wouldn't go home until Sam did...but he knows his dad and Bobby will have other ideas about that timeline. "Will you be here?"

"With bells on," Garth quips, jingling the keys attached to his belt. "Ellen, too," he adds as he walks toward the elevators. "Shifts run seven to seven."

Dean nods, wondering if that means Ellen will be assigned to Sam again. He hopes so.

"See you then," Garth calls, throwing a quick wave in Dean's direction.

Dean watches him board the elevator, then glances back at the locked PICU doors. He can see the nurses at the far end of the unit tending to Sam. The light outside Sam's door is still green, which means his kid is still stable; it's _Dean _who feels unstable. He rubs his hands over his face. He's exhausted – his thoughts scattered, his emotions raw – and if he's honest, he's not sure what to do with himself when he's separated from his little brother.

There's a small waiting room tucked around the corner with chairs and a TV, but neither are enticing. Dean doesn't want to sit, and he doesn't want to escape with mindless late-night programming; he wants to be with Sam.

The elevators ding as Dean walks a circle in front of the PICU, then comes face-to-face with –

"Dad?"

John looks as haggard as Dean feels. They've both been up over 24 hours and have had one hell of a fucked-up night. "Have you been out here since we left?"

"No. I've been with Sam."

"How...or do I wanna know?"

"Winchester charm."

John snorts at the smile Dean gives him. "Okay." He won't ask for details because it doesn't matter how his oldest managed to defy the rules posted outside the unit. Only one thing matters right now. "How's our kid?"

Dean feels the twinge of _something_ that he always does whenever John refers to Sam that way – their kid. "All hell was breaking loose when I got up here earlier, but he's stable now."

"Breaking loose how?"

Dean shrugs. "You know Sammy likes to be dramatic."

John ghosts a smile, appreciating Dean's attempt to lighten the mood even though he knows humor is the go-to defense mechanism for his oldest.

Dean sighs and switches topics before his dad can push for more. "Where's Bobby?"

"Still at the track waiting for the investigators to finish up with the cars."

"Investigators?"

"Standard protocol when someone dies."

"They think we killed Nick?"

"No. Nothing like that. They're just going through the motions. Taking photos. Conducting interviews. I doubt it will last much longer, but Bobby said he would handle it so I could head back here."

Dean nods, then glances at the PICU doors as Ellen approaches.

John does the same. "We know her?"

"Yeah. That's Ellen. Sam's nurse."

"We like her?"

Dean huffs a laugh as his dad completes their usual two-part checklist – the same two questions always asked whenever they meet someone new. "Yeah. She's the one who let me stay after I broke in."

"After you what?"

Dean answers with another smile, then turns that smile toward Ellen as she steps through the sliding double doors. "So, you're really leaving us."

Ellen scoffs at the choice of words. "You make it sound like I'm abandoning you."

"Aren't you?"

"Hardly," Ellen replies, digging her keys from her tote. "I'll be back at seven."

"Will you be assigned to Sam?"

"I better be," she says, echoing Dean's earlier words. She winks at him before smiling at John. "Hi there." She glances at the stranger's _Winchester and Sons_ t-shirt, though she doesn't need the clue. She can see the resemblance between him and the two brothers. "I guess you're the dad?"

"I am," John confirms, feeling the burst of pride and love he always does whenever he gets to claim his boys.

Ellen maintains her smile, even as she wonders about their family situation. Where is the mom? It's unusual for her not to be front and center with a child's care, especially a hospitalized child, which must mean their mom is –

"Alright, I'm ready. Let's..." Jo's words trail off when she sees Dean standing where she first encountered him. "You've _got_ to be kidding me. You're still here?"

"Jo..." Ellen warns, not in the mood to referee another confrontation. "Don't start."

"I didn't start it. He did."

John arches an eyebrow at the childish accusation, though it sounds plausible. His oldest is known for starting trouble, especially if someone is trying to keep him from Sam.

"Go wait downstairs. _Now_," Ellen adds when Jo doesn't move.

The young nurse scowls at the order but obeys, too tired to create a scene.

Ellen sighs, shaking her head in the awkward silence her daughter leaves behind before continuing like they weren't interrupted. "Anyway...shift change is over, so you can head back in."

The announcement is music to Dean's ears. "Is Sammy okay?"

Ellen smiles at the sweet nickname. "His fever is up and his numbers are elevated, but that's to be expected. I'm sure he'll settle as soon as you're with him again." She pats Dean's arm, then glances at John. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Winchester."

John cringes at the formality and responds with just his first name.

Ellen nods, her gaze shifting between father and son. "I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few days." She swipes her ID badge to open the double doors and motions for Dean to follow before swiping entry for the second door. "Only one visitor at a time," she tells them when she realizes John also followed her into the PICU. "I'll let you two decide who goes first, but you should both try to get some rest at some point. You're no good to Sam if you end up sick yourselves."

John stares at his oldest as Ellen walks past them toward the elevators.

Dean returns the stare, knowing what his dad is going to say. "Forget it."

"I haven't said anything."

"You don't have to."

"Somebody does."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Dad. No. I'm not going home. Sam needs me."

"Sam needs you to stay healthy," John counters, trying to keep his voice down even as he feels his frustration building. His oldest can be so fucking stubborn.

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit."

Dean lifts his chin at the challenge as the hissed expletive attracts attention from the nurses' station. Everyone is aware of the special circumstances allowing visitors for the patient at the far end of the unit, but disturbances to other patients will not be tolerated.

"I'm _fine_," Dean repeats and attempts to sidestep John, glaring when his dad grabs his arm.

"Relax," John soothes, releasing his grip. "I'm not stopping you from seeing Sam. I just need you to wait."

"For what?"

"For me to see him first."

"Dad – "

"I'm not asking, Dean."

That's all John says before he walks forward, leaving his oldest in the PICU's entrance as he makes his way toward Sam's room – the one he saw Ellen emerge from earlier.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

As he gets closer, John can see his youngest through the window, and the sight is almost too much to bear. He knew Sam's condition was critical...but knowing your child is on a ventilator and _seeing_ your child on a ventilator are two different things.

John stands in the doorway, stunned as he takes in the entire scene – the tubes and wires, the beeping machines and flashing screens. Sam lies pale and motionless in the middle of it all while a nurse fusses over him.

"Your daddy's here," she whispers, smoothing the blanket over her patient's chest before glancing at the man she's talking about. "Don't look so surprised," she scolds at his puzzled expression. "It's been years, but I'd recognize you anywhere, John Winchester."

John tilts his head. The raspy voice is as familiar as the piercing brown eyes staring at him over the edge of her mask. If she is who he thinks she is, she's right – it _has_ been years. "Missouri?"

"The one and only."

John wishes he could hug her, and when they're not in this sterile environment, he will. For now, he just smiles. "How long have you been back in Lawrence?"

"About a week. I was planning to get a little more settled with the new house and new job before I paid you a surprise visit, but it looks like you beat me to it." Her sassy tone mellows as she takes in his appearance. "I'd ask how you're doing, but I know no one is having a good day when they're in here."

"It's been the second worst night of my life," John admits, his fatigue and their history causing him to be more candid than usual. He doesn't have to tell her which night takes top prize in that undesirable competition because she was there. She was an EMT before she was a nurse.

"It's amazing how much something can still hurt almost 20 years later," she comments, acknowledging John's pain and loss without saying Mary's name. "It's even more amazing how life goes on."

John nods. Moving forward without Mary beside him seemed impossible back then. Taking care of a baby and a preschooler while also trying to keep his business afloat was overwhelming. The only thing more overwhelming was his grief, and he knows he and his boys wouldn't be where they are today without Bobby and Missouri. Those two were the glue that had held the Winchesters together – Bobby the old surrogate uncle, Missouri the new surrogate aunt. She had seen a family in need and had stepped in, forging a bond of love and support with the young widower and his children.

Six years later she had left Lawrence to begin her career as a nurse, and although they had tried to keep in touch, their friendship had drifted. John didn't even know she was back in town, yet here she is – back in their lives when they need her the most. Their paths crossing on a night similar to the one that had introduced them.

"It's _damn_ good to see you, Missouri."

She smiles, her mouth hidden but her eyes crinkling. "It's good to see you, too, John. I was hoping it wouldn't happen _here_, but when I found out about that..." She motions to his t-shirt advertising the family business. "I figured it was only a matter of time."

John sighs at the disapproval in her tone. "I know what you're thinking..."

"I doubt it," Missouri replies. "That's my trick, remember?" She winks at him, deciding to let the issue go for now. There will be time later to lecture about the dangers of racing. "I saw Dean earlier, but I don't think he recognized me. Of course, how could he?" She motions to the protective gear covering her from head to toe. Dean was just a ten-year old when she had left town, but she hopes he remembers her when she's not disguised in this get-up, and he's not distracted and worried about his brother. "He grew up handsome," she continues. "And this one..."

John's smile is soft and fond as he listens to Missouri talk about his sons.

"I remember rocking him to sleep," she says, tucking a strand of hair behind Sam's ear. "Such a sweet, precious angel."

John can imagine how Sam would blush and Dean would roll his eyes if they heard that description. She's not wrong, though. Sam was a sweet baby, and he's still a sweet kid. "He didn't deserve what happened tonight."

"No, he didn't," Missouri agrees, wondering if John realizes it's actually morning. Time has a way of blurring after trauma; plus, the PICU is always kept dark and quiet. He wouldn't be the first parent to lose track of days and nights in here. She glances over her shoulder. She knows his answer before she asks but – "You wanna talk about it?"

"Not really." John pauses, shrugs. "I mean...you read his chart, and you watch the News, right?"

"I do."

"Then you already know."

Missouri nods. She was horrified when she had woken up to the story about a teenage racecar driver involved in a fatal wreck. Even before she had heard the driver's name, she had seen _Winchester and Sons_ emblazoned on the side of the car rolling down the track. Her heart had climbed to her throat when the car had erupted in flames. She had waited – panicked and breathless – for the newscaster to announce who had died. Had prayed John's youngest hadn't met the same fate as his mother. Had felt weak with relief when Sam had been saved. If Dean hadn't gotten there when he did...

"I'm sorry about the other driver. The one who didn't make it."

"I'm not."

Missouri arches an eyebrow at the curt response, then frowns when one of Sam's monitors begins to beep louder.

John frowns as well, concerned by the sudden change. "What's wrong?"

"His heart rate is spiking," Missouri reports, shaking her head at the sensitivity of this child. "He's probably just reacting to the tension in the room. His RHR and BP have been elevated since Dean left for shift change. And now all this talk about the accident..."

"RHR?"

"Resting heart rate," she translates, her own heart aching as the alarm becomes sharper, more insistent. "It's okay, sweet boy," she soothes and strokes the length of Sam's arm, careful not to snag any IV lines.

If Sam hears her, he doesn't respond. His vitals continue to indicate agitation and distress.

Missouri sighs and glances at John in the doorway. She can appreciate his need to be with his youngest but – "Where's Dean?"

"Right here."

Missouri smiles as John's oldest breezes into the room, washing his hands and suiting up in protective gear like he's worked in the PICU for years. She watches Sam's heart rate and blood pressure even out in the next instant, proving what she already knew – this kid just wants his big brother. If Dean is there, Sam will remain stable. Ellen had reported the same phenomenon along with Sam's tendency to react every time Dean speaks.

"I heard Sammy's alarms."

"I figured you would," Missouri replies, touched that Dean still calls his little brother that nickname. "You've always had a sixth sense for him."

Dean narrows his eyes as he fits a mask over his face. "How do you know?"

Sam's heart rate spikes loud and quick before leveling again.

John stares at the monitors, trying to figure out the new sound. He's thankful the alarm has silenced, but the sporadic chirp is also concerning. "What is that?"

Missouri shares a knowing glance with Dean, noticing the satisfied gleam in the big brother's eyes as he realizes Sam does not react the same way to their father's voice. "That's Sam's heart rate," she explains. "It spikes when Dean speaks."

John cuts his eyes at his oldest. "Say something."

Dean huffs a laugh at his dad's tone – half skeptical, half amazed. He crosses to the bed. "Hey, Sammy."

John smiles at the answering chirp; the sound an undeniable response to Dean. He didn't think his boys could surprise him anymore, thought he knew the depth of their bond...but he was wrong.

"I hate to do this, John," Missouri says, attracting his attention. "But there's only one visitor allowed at a time."

John nods. He wants to stay with Sam, but he knows Sam wants Dean. The realization stings, even though he's used to his boys choosing each other. If he's honest, he hopes they always do. "Does that mean you're kickin' me out?"

"Don't let the door hit you."

John chuckles at Missouri's reply, then holds her gaze. "Take care of them."

"Just like they're my own..."

It's a familiar promise that stirs more emotion than John was expecting. How many times have they exchanged those words over the years?

"Go on now," Missouri urges. "Less gawking, more walking."

"Yes ma'am," John tells her even as he lingers. He stares at Dean's back, knowing his oldest is too focused on Sam to look at him. "Dean. I'll be in the waiting room if you need me."

Dean nods but doesn't turn.

John smiles at the predicted response and heads back the way he came.

Dean sits in the chair he spent the night in and stares at the nurse on the opposite side of Sam's bed. "Do we know you?"

"You do."

Dean glances at her name badge. "Missouri Moseley," he reads aloud, then blinks as the name triggers a series of memories. He stares at her again, replaying her favorite quip about gawking and walking, her empty threats of whacking people with spoons. He remembers a voice like hers echoing throughout his childhood, teaching and scolding and comforting. He remembers her eyes and her smell and her hugs. He remembers _her_. "Aunt Missouri?"

She beams at him from beneath her mask. "That's right, honey."

"I thought you moved away?"

"I did, but I'm back now. I missed my sweet boys."

"Well, Sammy's still sweet," Dean allows. "But I'm not. I'm badass."

Missouri smiles at the teasing correction. She can only imagine the tough, heartbreaker reputation Dean has crafted over the years. The child she left behind has grown into a confident young man, and she couldn't be prouder. She turns her attention to Sam, thankful he's calm and resting. "You're still good with him."

"Of course I am. He's mine, remember?"

Missouri hums a laugh. She does indeed remember a four-year old Dean setting her straight about that. She can still see him standing in the doorway of the Winchester home with baby Sam on his hip as they both had gazed at her, the newcomer on their porch. The four-year old had listened as she had introduced herself, then had provided an introduction of his own.

"I'm Dean, and this is Sammy. He's mine."

The proclamation had been adorable until Missouri had realized the four-year old was serious. His baby brother belonged to him, and if she was going to join their family, she needed to understand that. As trust was built, Dean had allowed Missouri a more direct role in caring for Sam. She had reveled in the opportunity but had always respected the big brother's possessive streak. Throughout the years, it became a running joke between them – "arguing" over who Sam belonged to...like there was ever any doubt.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

The vulnerability in that question breaks Missouri's heart. "Oh, honey." She reaches across the bed, covering Dean's hand with her own; both of their hands resting on Sam's. "It might be a rough road for a while, but I think he's gonna be just fine."

"He better be," Dean murmurs, his focus returning to his kid.

Missouri takes his shift in attention as her cue. She pats his hand, then scans the monitors before crossing to the door. "I'll be in the nurses' station," she says as she strips her gear, washes her hands, and exits the room.

Dean spends the next several hours watching Sam, accustomed now to the whoosh of the ventilator, to the rhythmic beeps indicating a stable little brother. At lunchtime, Missouri brings him a sandwich and doesn't leave until he eats it. When it's midafternoon, she returns with a stranger.

"Dean. This is Dr. Collins."

Dean glances over his shoulder at the man slipping a yellow gown over his white coat. He stares at him but doesn't speak.

Missouri recognizes the look and stony silence for the warnings they are. "He's part of Dr. Turner's surgical team," she says, hoping the cheerful reassurance in her tone will ease Dean's suspicions; the big brother always on alert whenever someone unfamiliar approaches his kid. "Dr. Turner is behind schedule in the OR, so Dr. Collins is here to complete his rounds."

"Please. Call me Cas," the doctor replies. "It's short for Castiel, a name I chose for myself after my great awakening. It means 'my cover is God' or 'shield of God'."

Dean cuts his eyes at Missouri. She really expects him to allow this fruit loop anywhere near Sam?

Missouri responds with a tight smile. She admits the doctor is peculiar. She can't pinpoint if it's his expressionless face, his flat affect, or just his whole demeanor, but something about him is definitely..._off_. Though she knows most nurses and even other doctors have dismissed him as a religious fanatic, she also knows this man is smart; the kind of smart that makes people odd.

"Cas is one of our best physicians," she tells Dean, reaching for a mask while holding his gaze in a silent plea for him to cooperate. She understands his initial reaction to this new doctor, but they can't proceed with the next step in Sam's recovery without a doctor's orders.

Dean senses the importance of the visit and nods his permission. He may not trust this Cas character, but he _does_ trust Missouri. He watches both of them cross to the opposite side of Sam's bed while he continues to sit beside his brother and hold the kid's hand. He tracks the doctor's movements as he folds back the blanket and lifts Sam's gown along with the bandages underneath.

"The incision looks good. Sutures intact. Typical post-op inflammation and edema. Minimal drainage, but I still want these dressings changed before the next shift."

"Of course," Missouri agrees, resituating Sam's clothes and sheets.

"This looks good as well," the doctor continues, examining the stitches across Sam's forehead.

Dean is thankful for the positive report but – "Why does he still have a fever?"

"Fevers are typical after surgery, especially in children." Cas studies the monitors, reading the various numbers. "His heart rate and blood pressure are stable. O2 sats within normal limits. His temperature _is_ elevated, but his incisions are clean with no signs of infection. He's also receiving two antibiotics, and his last white count did not indicate concern. I predict his fever will break in the next 24 hours."

"And if it doesn't?"

"We'll re-examine and treat as indicated."

Dean glances at Missouri to gauge whether she agrees with that plan.

She nods. "It might not look like it, but Sam is doing well overall."

"He is," Cas confirms. "Surprisingly well considering his condition when he arrived in the ER last night."

Dean would rather forget about last night, but he knows that's impossible since Sam will be dealing with the consequences of his injuries for the rest of his life. The physical and emotional scars, the dangers associated with a suppressed immune system, the risks related to smoke inhalation and cracked ribs, the residual effects of a concussion and massive blood loss...

"Reduce this patient's level of sedation," Cas is saying when Dean tunes back into the conversation. "When he's conscious and oriented, begin extubation protocols."

Dean narrows his eyes, trying to keep up with the medical lingo. Both the doctor and Missouri are staring at the tube down Sam's throat, which must mean – "You're taking that out?"

"Extubation is usually decided after a weaning readiness test involving spontaneous breathing on a T-piece or low levels of ventilatory assist."

Dean blinks at Cas's explanation, then looks at Missouri for translation.

She smiles, wishing he could see it. "Sam will come off the ventilator after he proves he can either breathe on his own or with very little supplemental oxygen."

"Exactly," Cas affirms, moving toward the door to begin stripping his protective gear. "Update his chart to reflect verbal orders, and I'll sign off later." He speaks louder as he lathers and rinses his hands in the corner sink. "Dr. Turner or myself or someone on the team will check in tomorrow morning, or you can page us if we're needed before then."

"Will do," Missouri replies, though she doubts she'll need them. Not only is she an experienced PICU nurse, but she's been taking care of Sam since he was literally in diapers. She's confident she can manage anything he throws at her, and if she can't, Sam's big brother can. She waits for the doctor to leave the room before turning to Dean.

"He's weird."

Missouri laughs at the blunt appraisal. "I think you mean _different_." Dean scowls at the diplomatic rephrasing, causing her to laugh again. "Okay, fine. He's a little weird...but he gave us the order we've been waiting for. If we reduce Sam's sedation now, he should be awake in six to 12 hours."

Dean pulls a face at the timeline. "Why so long?"

_Because your brother is in a medically induced coma_, Missouri thinks but wouldn't dare mention "coma" and "Sam" in the same sentence to Dean.

"The heavier the sedation, the longer the wait," she says instead.

Dean nods. "Okay. And then when he wakes up, that comes out?"

"Not quite," Missouri tells him, knowing Dean wants his brother off the ventilator but – "It doesn't usually go that quickly. We don't pull the tube as soon as a patient is conscious. There are steps we must take to ensure Sam can protect his airway and is strong enough to breathe by himself with minimal assist. But if all goes well, he should be extubated by this time tomorrow."

"That would be awesome," Dean says, his quiet voice more reflective of his fatigue than his enthusiasm. Under his mask, he's beaming. "I can't wait to see his eyes open."

"Me, neither," Missouri admits, wondering if they're the same color hazel they were when Sam was younger. She also wonders what his voice will sound like, if he'll remember her...

"He will."

Missouri smiles, both at Dean's ability to read her thoughts and his confidence in Sam's memory. "How do you know?"

"I just do."

It's the kind of simple response that occurs when someone is born knowing how to do something – and for Dean, he was born knowing how to read Sam. Their connection exists on an innate level, and Missouri had forgotten how fascinating it is to watch. She lingers by the bed before crossing to one of the cabinets along the far wall. "Help me with this?" she asks, collecting items needed to change Sam's bandages.

Dean nods and ends up doing most of the work himself. He cleans the wound under Missouri's supervision, then presses clean gauze over the incision.

She smiles at his gentle touch, remembering how he handled baby Sam the same way. "You've always been so careful with him."

"Not always," Dean corrects, pausing before he meets her gaze. "I wasn't careful with him last night."

Missouri frowns at the guilt-laced bitterness in his tone. "Honey. What happened last night wasn't your fault."

"It was somebody's fault."

"Not yours," she repeats. "And not your daddy's, either."

Dean doesn't respond, keeping his eyes trained on Sam's side.

Missouri recognizes avoidance when she sees it. She pulls Sam's gown over the fresh bandage and readjusts the blanket. "Dean. Look at me." She waits until he does. "Time spent laying blame is wasted time."

"I know," Dean agrees. He sighs, his mask billowing at the forced exhale. "I just – "

"I know," she echoes. "You're scared and angry and want someone to pay for what they did to Sam."

"He did pay," Dean tells her. "He's dead."

"What?"

"The driver who caused the wreck. He died on the track."

"Well, then..." Missouri processes the news, not realizing the connection until now. "It sounds like justice has already been served...which means you need to let this go, Dean. You need to let it go, so you can focus on what's most important."

"Taking care of Sammy."

Missouri smiles at the reflexive answer. "Yes. Sam gets his strength from you, and when he wakes up, he's gonna need his big brother more than he ever has. You need to focus on what happens _next_, not what happened last night."

It's the kind of soft kick in the ass Missouri is famous for, and Dean is glad she's there to give it because she's right.

"I'm what?"

"Right," Dean says and smirks as she winks at him before gathering and disposing the soiled bandages.

Missouri leaves the brothers alone for another hour, but when she returns, she insists Dean takes a break and escorts him to the waiting room herself. She hugs him since contact precautions don't apply outside the PICU, then hugs John as well. The next one in line is another blast from the past.

"Bobby Singer." She looks him up and down before pulling him close. "You haven't changed a bit."

"Still tall, dark, and handsome," Bobby confirms, feeling her laugh against his chest before holding her at arm's length. "You're a sight for sore eyes yourself."

"Got that right."

Bobby chuckles. "John told me you were back."

"Yeah, well..." Missouri shrugs like it's not a big deal. "I figured it was past time for a family reunion."

"Got that right," Bobby repeats. "It ain't been the same without you."

"I certainly hope not," Missouri replies, feeling lighter and happier than she has all day. She basks in the moment, then sighs when she remembers why they're together in a hospital waiting room instead of around a dinner table. "Dean is taking a break," she announces, pinning him with a hard stare before he can object again. "You, too," she adds, glancing at John. "I want you both to go home. Take a shower, eat a hot meal, and get some rest. You can come back in the morning."

"What?" Dean shakes his head. "No fucking way."

Missouri arches an eyebrow. "You may be old enough to drink, Dean Winchester, but you ain't old enough to sass me...especially with that kind of language." She pauses, her gaze shifting between John and Bobby since she knows the source of such choice vocabulary. That's what she gets for leaving these two men to finish raising this child. She can only hope her sweet Sam doesn't talk like that. "Now, you two go on. Me and Bobby got this."

Bobby nods in agreement, thankful Missouri hasn't lost her touch; her brand of tough love still the perfect complement to his. He sidesteps John and Dean, leaving them to fend for themselves as he heads toward the PICU's entrance.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 14

"Well, there's one thing that hasn't changed since I've been gone," Missouri announces when she joins Bobby in Sam's room a few minutes later. "Dean is still just as stubborn as his daddy. In fact..." She dries her hands and reaches for a yellow gown. "It's hard to say which one is the _most_ stubborn."

"No, it ain't," Bobby counters, settled in the chair Dean left behind.

Missouri follows his gaze and hums her agreement; both knowing the youngest Winchester is the most stubborn. She smiles as she adjusts a mask over her nose and approaches the bed. The family trait seems more endearing than frustrating when applied to Sam. She remembers when this teenager was a strong-willed toddler; his chubby little hands pushing hers away whenever she tried to help him, insisting he could do everything himself. She looks at those hands now – covered in scrapes and bruises – and grasps the one closest to her.

Bobby glances over his shoulder, surprised when Dean isn't standing in the doorway. He glances back at Missouri. "Did they really leave?"

"What do you think?"

Bobby chuckles at her no-nonsense tone and expression. "I think you're the only person who could pull that off."

"It's for their own good. And his," Missouri adds, returning her attention to Sam. "This child is gonna need them at their best, not running on fumes. I told them I'd come by the house after my shift, and they better be there."

"I hope they don't let you down, warden."

Missouri tosses a playful glare in Bobby's direction, though she doesn't mind the title or the role.

"Twenty bucks says Dean is back in here before midnight."

Missouri shakes her head, refusing the bet since she knows Sam's big brother will return to the kid's bedside long before morning. "It's hard to keep magnets separated."

Bobby smiles at the comparison, then frowns when Sam's heart monitor spikes.

Missouri sighs.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. It's just gonna be a long night."

Bobby's frown deepens. "Why? Is Sam that bad off?"

"No," Missouri soothes. "His overall condition has improved since this morning. He just becomes agitated when Dean isn't here."

"Then why did you send him home?"

"Because I'm not having both of my boys in the hospital at the same time," Missouri replies, realizing she's being overdramatic to prove her point. "Dean needs to rest while he can. Once Sam's awake, he's not gonna want his big brother to leave. Remember how he used to cry when Dean left for school?"

Bobby nods. "Used to take you half the morning to settle him down."

"Sometimes it took all day."

"Unless Dean skipped school."

Missouri snorts at the absurdity. Only Dean Winchester would skip elementary school on the regular. John would drop him off, and within the hour, he would be back home. "Did we ever find out how he did that?"

Bobby shakes his head. "Dean's always been resourceful when it comes to Sam."

Missouri agrees and imagines he hitched a ride since everyone in Lawrence knew John and his boys even back then. Someone probably spotted the kid on the highway and brought him home instead of returning him to school. She smiles, remembering how Dean would drop his backpack and reach for Sam, how the distressed baby would quiet as soon as his big brother held him.

Missouri glances at the monitors, wishing Dean were here to work that magic now. She knows the light outside the door is flashing yellow, and in another few seconds, it will switch to red if Sam doesn't calm. Although he didn't respond to her when she spoke to him earlier, she wonders if he'll respond to the song she used to sing. She shrugs, figuring it's worth a try.

"Rockabye sweet baby boy. You fill my heart with joy. Dry your eyes, it's time to rest. Don't you cry no more."

Bobby smiles at the familiar tune, remembering when Missouri had first hijacked the classic hit into a lullaby. "I'm pretty sure that's not how it goes," he had teased her.

"That's how my version goes," she had told him, had said a Kansas baby deserved a Kansas song, and that was the only one she knew. Sam had seemed to like it, so it had stuck. It became her go-to song whenever he was upset, and it appears to still be effective since the teenager's vitals begin evening out.

"There you go," she encourages, thumb sweeping over the back of his hand as she watches the monitors. "Those aren't the kind of numbers you give Dean, but I'll take 'em." She glances at Bobby as he stares at her from the other side of the bed. "What?"

"Nothin'. It's just good to have you back."

The statement causes Missouri's eyes to mist. "I never should've left. If I had stayed, maybe I could've knocked some sense into John Winchester before he strapped my two boys into a racecar."

Bobby understands her stance on the issue but – "The boys like it." He offers an apologetic shrug when she scowls at him. "They do, Missouri. And they're good at it. Dean is damn good, and Sam was starting to come into his own."

"Well, now he's in a coma and he's missing an organ," she snaps. "And don't even get me started on the blood loss and concussion and everything else he'll have to deal with when he wakes up."

Bobby lifts his hands in surrender as Sam's heart rate increases; both reacting to her outburst.

Missouri sighs, trying to rein in her emotions. "It's okay, sweetheart," she murmurs and hums her song until Sam's numbers level. She watches the ventilator force him to inhale and wonders if Bobby knows – if any of them know – how close they came to losing this precious child.

"We know," Bobby tells her, confident he can speak for John and Dean on this. "We know what could've happened last night."

"What _did_ happen for one driver."

Bobby grunts at the mention of Nick. "Yeah, well...I don't like speaking poorly of the dead, but he got what he deserved."

Missouri nods. She didn't know the guy, but she knows he caused Sam's wreck and that's enough for her not to mourn his loss. She only brought him up for one reason. "What if next time it's Sam or Dean who die on the track? Is John willing to risk that? 'Cause I'm not."

The possibility hangs heavy in the air as Sam's vitals begin to rise once more.

"Alright. Who's upsetting my patient?" Ellen asks, her teasing tone and matching smile slipping when she realizes she's interrupting an intense conversation. Her gaze shifts between Missouri and Bobby. "Do I need to come back?"

Missouri shakes her head, forces herself to sound cheerful. "No. Everything's fine."

"Not everything..." Ellen counters, nodding at the flashing monitors as she gloves up. "Where's Dean?"

"I sent him home."

"Wow." Ellen blinks. "How did you manage that?"

"The perks of being his aunt," Missouri replies, her smile more genuine now. She glances across the bed. "This is Bobby Singer, Sam and Dean's uncle. He's taking the nightshift."

"Me, too." Ellen winks at her new partner as two more puzzle pieces click into place. When they had changed shifts earlier, Missouri hadn't mentioned she was the brothers' aunt and now there's an uncle as well...but still no mom. _Huh._ She crosses to Sam's side for a closer look at the monitors. "Your numbers are all over the place, kiddo." She sighs, unsure how to stabilize her patient if Dean isn't there. "Let me guess – he's been like this since his brother left."

Bobby chuckles at her accurate assessment. "She's good."

"She _is_ good," Missouri agrees. "And she'll take good care of Sam."

Ellen nods as her fellow nurse pins her with a meaningful stare. "I will," she assures, but she also knows her limitations. She knows she's not Dean. "When can we expect his brother to return?"

Missouri huffs a laugh. "I wouldn't be surprised if he were headed here right now. Of course, for all I know, he never left. I saw him leave the building, not the parking lot." She glances at Bobby, both knowing the likelihood of Dean biding his time in the Impala until her shift ended.

"Twenty bucks says he's still here."

Missouri rolls her eyes, though she's glad their tradition of betting on Winchester behavior is still alive and well. Two wagers in less than an hour. "I'm gonna pass," she replies. "And you're gonna take a break while we change shifts."

Bobby nods and stands, rolling the tension out of his shoulders. "I'll be back, squirt."

Missouri exchanges a glance with Ellen, both nurses touched by the sweet nickname and the way the gruff old man squeezes the kid's hand before crossing to the door.

Bobby strips his protective gear, washes his hands, and heads to the waiting room. He expects to have company when he arrives, and he's not disappointed.

"I figured you'd be here."

Dean stops pacing when Bobby speaks. His hair is wet, and his clothes are different, which implies he at least went home long enough to shower and change.

"How's Sam?"

"He misses you."

Dean ghosts a smile, then sidesteps Bobby when he realizes what that means – Sam's vitals are sky-high.

"Hold on," Bobby says, grabbing Dean's arm. "They're changing shifts."

"I don't care," Dean snaps, shrugging out of Bobby's grasp. "Sammy needs me."

"Why? What's wrong?"

Bobby turns to see John – also with wet hair and different clothes.

"Is Sam worse?"

"No," Bobby replies. "He's just not as stable when Dean is gone."

John scowls at the report. He follows his oldest to the PICU's entrance, watching as Dean taps on the window and motions for Garth. "What's the plan?"

"He's gonna let me in."

"Does _he_ know that?"

Dean snorts at his father's tone. "Yeah, Dad. We're friends."

"You're friends with a security guard?"

"I am now," Dean responds and smiles when Garth opens the door. "Hey, man. I need to see Sam."

"Sure thing," Garth agrees, stepping aside to allow Dean room to pass. He eyes the two other men. "Sorry, guys. Just one visitor at a time."

John and Bobby nod, tracking Dean as he walks toward Sam's room and encounters Missouri at the nurses' station. She takes in his appearance and sighs.

"Well, I guess you made it home. You just didn't _stay_ there."

"We couldn't stay there without Sam. So, we took showers and hit the drive-thru." Dean shrugs like that was the best he and his dad could do with her orders to go home and eat a hot meal. They didn't sleep or rest but – "Two out of three ain't bad, right?"

Missouri smiles, too tired to fuss. "It's okay, honey. I know I was asking the impossible. Magnets can only stay apart for so long." She glances at the yellow light as it begins flashing beside Sam's door. "Go," she says, but Dean is already halfway down the hall.

"Sammy..."

Ellen recognizes his voice and isn't sure who's happier to hear it – her or her patient.

"Sammy," Dean repeats, entering the room. He waits for his brother to respond and smiles when he does, never tiring of the instant reaction. "That's it," he soothes, watching the numbers fall on the monitors as he begins the process of suiting up in protective gear.

"Did I ever tell you you're my hero?"

Dean smirks at the amazement in Ellen's voice. "Why? Was he giving you a hard time?"

"Like you don't already know..."

Dean's smile lingers as he approaches the bed, proud of his big brother superpowers even if he'll never admit it to anyone except himself. He takes Sam's hand and scans his kid, searching for any signs of change. "He didn't wake up while I was gone, did he?"

"No. The sedation is still working its way out of his system, and now that you're here, I'm sure he'll rest peacefully through the night. In fact..." Ellen gestures to the corner. "I hope you both will."

Dean glances at the new chair stacked with a pillow and blanket.

"It reclines," Ellen tells him. "So, it should be more comfortable than that hard plastic thing you endured last night."

"It's definitely an upgrade," Dean agrees, touched that she would do this for him. He looks back at her. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Here..." Ellen rounds the end of the bed and pulls the chair closer so Dean can sit but still reach Sam. "Is this good?"

"Maybe a little closer."

Ellen smiles and moves the chair forward until its arm is touching the mattress.

"Perfect," Dean declares and takes a seat, settling in while never releasing his grip on Sam's hand. He fits the pillow behind his head but doesn't unfold the blanket.

"Need anything else?"

"Yeah. What do you have on tap?"

Ellen laughs, giving a playful swat to his arm as she turns. She doesn't doubt he could use a stiff drink after everything his family has been through since last night but – "I'll bring you a bottle of water."

Dean chuckles. "Not what I had in mind," he grumbles as she dries her hands and exits the room. He sighs in the silence she leaves behind, grateful to be alone again with Sam even if they're surrounded by the constant hum of medical equipment. He checks the monitors, then checks his brother before leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15

When Dean wakes, the blanket is wrapped around him and Missouri is in the room.

"Morning, sunshine." She smiles as he pulls a face at the cheery greeting, remembering a similar expression from a child Dean every time she woke him for school. "Sleep well?"

Dean nods, surprised he slept at all. He glances at Sam and winces at the stiffness in his outstretched arm; his muscles rigid and sore from maintaining the position while he held his kid's hand through the night. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine," Missouri reports, watching as Dean eases his hand from Sam's and stands, stretching and yawning. "When I first got here, I thought you were faking so you wouldn't have to leave during shift change. But Ellen said you had been asleep for hours."

Dean shrugs, a bit embarrassed the nurses caught him sleeping on the job. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

"You're exhausted, and I'm glad you let yourself rest."

Dean shrugs again, uncomfortable with her attention. "Have you seen Dad or Bobby?"

Missouri nods. "I stopped by the waiting room before shift change and convinced them to go home for a few hours. _For real_ this time..." she adds, glowering at Dean before smiling. "I would try to convince you to do the same, but I know I would only be talking to myself. And besides, I wouldn't do that to Sam."

Dean frowns at the mention of his brother and scans the monitors. The numbers have changed from what they were last night, but Sam still seems stable so – "What do you mean?"

"He's close to waking up," Missouri replies, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice even if it's also tinged with nervous anticipation. There are many ways it can go when a patient regains consciousness – especially after a traumatic event – and she hopes it goes well for Sam. "I wouldn't dare send you away from this child now. Not when I know there's only one person he's gonna want to see."

Dean smiles, his chest tight with love and big brother pride. "How soon?"

Missouri studies the numbers again. "I'd say within the hour."

"So, I have time to pee?"

Missouri laughs. "Yes. You have time to take care of business and stretch your legs. Just don't dawdle."

Dean nods at the familiar command. He strips his gear, washes his hands, and ducks out of the room. When he returns, he senses something is different.

"I was wrong," Missouri announces as if Dean doesn't already know. She glances at him over her shoulder. "We don't have an hour. We have _maybe_ a few minutes."

The news is both exhilarating and terrifying. Dean can't wait to see his brother awake, but it feels like the process is suddenly moving too fast.

"Is this normal?"

"Every patient is different." It's a well-rehearsed statement but nonetheless true. "My biggest concern is always self-extubation. When patients wake, they sometimes pull that themselves." Missouri gestures to the ventilator tube. It's an understandable reaction but – "Obviously, we don't want that to happen."

Dean cringes at the thought as he crosses to the bed, covered in protective gear and ready for whatever happens next. He doesn't have to wait long. Sam's eyes flutter open, then close – so quick Dean would've missed it if he hadn't been staring at his kid. He smiles, overjoyed by the glimpse of hazel.

"Sam-my..."

Sam opens his eyes again, recognizing the sing-song voice that wakes him every morning. He knew his big brother was there, had sensed him through the night, had felt their hands slotted together. He tries to answer now, to call Dean's name in return, but the word becomes lodged in his throat. He swallows, his expression morphing into a silent gag when he realizes there's something protruding from his mouth.

Dean's heart breaks at the gurgled sound. "You're okay," he soothes, catching Sam's arm mid-reach as the kid grabs for whatever is choking him.

"That's helping you breathe, sweetheart."

Dean cuts his eyes across the bed as Sam startles at the unfamiliar voice; his rapid, unfocused blinks becoming squinted and confused as he takes in his surroundings. His escalating panic sets off one of the alarms as he stares at the stranger hovering over him and begins struggling against whoever is holding his wrist.

Dean maintains his grip with no effort at all, concerned by the unfolding scene. His kid is disoriented and scared, and the gurgled sound he continues to make around the ventilator tube is going to be Dean's undoing. He glances at his brother's skyrocketing heart rate flashing on the monitor and knows Sam needs to relax before they have no choice but to sedate him again.

Missouri is thinking the same. Dean can feel her staring at him, waiting for him to signal he's out of his depth and needs her to inject the medication she has on standby.

"No," Dean says and shakes his head for emphasis. "Just give us a minute."

Missouri hesitates when Dean tilts his head toward the door.

"Please," he adds, though the word sounds less polite when it's growled with thinning patience.

"Okay," Missouri relents. "I'll be just outside the door if you need me."

Dean knows he won't. He knows he can quiet his spiraling kid if Sam will just – "Look at me." He sits so he's eye-level with his brother and unties his mask so the kid can actually _see_ him. The combination of his touch, voice, and eye contact never fails to ground his panicked little brother, but Sam needs to cooperate for the trick to work. "Sammy."

Sam's gaze darts in Dean's direction; his fear and anxiety evaporating when he realizes his big brother is beside him. He glances at the other side of the bed, then back to Dean. He doesn't understand where the stranger went...or where he is...or what happened between the track and this place, but none of it matters. If Dean is here, he's safe.

"That's it," Dean murmurs as Sam's numbers begin to fall. "Just calm the fuck down, huh? It's too early in the morning for you to be a drama queen."

The teasing banter would be better if it wasn't one-sided, but Dean is just thankful his kid is awake to hear it. He releases his hold on Sam's wrist and grasps his brother's hand, his thumb sweeping over scraped knuckles as Sam stares at him with complete trust and dependence. It reminds Dean of when baby Sam used to do the same, and the memory is almost too much in this moment.

He brushes Sam's bangs from his eyes and palms his forehead, smiling when he feels cool skin beneath the prickle of stitches. He checks the monitors to confirm before making the announcement. "Awake with no fever." His smile widens. "It may have started rough, Sammy, but I think it's gonna be a good day."

Sam blinks at him, clinging to Dean's hand like he's afraid his brother will leave.

Dean laces their fingers in a tighter hold. "You know I'm not going anywhere." Sam blinks at him again before making the gurgled sound that Dean already hates. He wonders if his kid is trying to speak or if that's just the sound the ventilator makes when the patient is conscious and fighting its help. "Listen. About this..." He nods at the tube. "I know it sucks, but it's what you need right now, okay?"

_Why? _

Dean hears the question in Sam's expression as clearly as if the kid had actually asked. "Because I said so," he replies in standard big brother fashion and chuckles at the bitchface Sam somehow manages to make. "I don't know how you do it, Sammy – unconscious for two days, yet still charming as ever. You must get it from me."

Sam frowns at the tidbit of information tucked inside his brother's deflecting humor. Unconscious for two days? He glances around the room, realizing they're in a hospital. He looks at the multiple machines surrounding him, tracks the wires and tubes attached to his body, remembers the stranger in a gown with a mask and gloves. Dean is also wearing a gown and gloves, and he _was_ wearing a mask. Sam stares at it now, hanging from his brother's neck. He might not remember what happened, but he knows it was bad; bad enough to land him in intensive care.

Dean sighs as Sam's numbers begin to elevate. He knows the kid is working himself up over imagined scenarios, and he needs to – "Stop." Sam's eyes mist at the sharp command, causing Dean to sigh again. He leans forward, holding his little brother's gaze. "I'm not trying to upset you, Sammy. And I'm not trying to hide anything. I'll tell you what happened. Just not right now. Okay?" He squeezes Sam's hand and smiles when the pressure is returned – weak but there.

_Okay._

"Good. Now..." Dean pauses. "What d'ya think – should this stay or go?" His tone is light and casual like he's not bothered by the tube sticking out of his kid's mouth or the horrible sound Sam keeps making around it. "Thumbs up for 'stay', thumbs down for 'go'."

Sam flips him off instead, not amused by his brother's games.

Dean chuckles, glad the kid feels well enough to be a little shit. "That's my boy," he praises and turns when Missouri appears in the doorway.

"Permission to enter?"

Dean smirks. He figures he should feel bad for kicking her out earlier...but he doesn't. It was what Sam needed at the time. "Permission granted."

Missouri smiles and steps into the room. "Is there a reason your mask is on your chest and not your face?"

Dean snorts as she suits up in protective gear – mask included. "Sam responds better when he can see me, but I'll put it back on if I'm putting him at risk."

"It's fine," Missouri replies. "We're about 12 hours away from contact precautions being lifted. And knowing you two, you probably already share the exact same germs anyway."

"Probably," Dean agrees, turning back to his brother. "Sammy. You remember Aunt Missouri?"

Sam stares at her as she approaches but doesn't otherwise react.

"It's been a while," Missouri comments, disappointed by the lack of recognition in his eyes until she reminds herself this child is barely ten minutes out of a coma. There's still a strong cocktail of medication running through his system and still hope that he'll remember her later. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"

Sam glances at Dean, reminding her of a shy little boy relying on his big brother to communicate with strangers.

"His fever's gone."

Missouri checks the monitors. "Well, my goodness. That's definitely a step in the right direction."

"The next step is extubation."

"It can be."

"Good. How soon can we get him off this thing?"

"Well, that depends on a lot of different variables. But ultimately extubation is based on performance with spontaneous breathing trials. We typically aim for at least three."

"Okay. How soon can we start them?"

Missouri studies her nephew, suspecting Dean's eagerness is fueled by his aversion to one recent development. "It's the sound, isn't it?"

Dean nods, reluctant to say anything more since he doesn't want to concern Sam. He assumes the kid can't help the constant gurgling and also assumes it must be normal if Missouri is referencing it...but it's driving Dean crazy. It sounds like his kid is choking, and he cannot fucking take it.

"It's actually a good sign," Missouri tells him. "If Sam is strong enough to fight the ventilator, chances are he's strong enough to breathe without it. We'll monitor his vitals and O2 sats for the next hour, and if he remains stable, we can begin the weaning process."

"Hell yes."

Missouri arches an eyebrow.

Dean shrugs. "It's the way I talk. Love me, love my potty mouth."

Missouri rolls her eyes, thankful her smile is hidden behind her mask since she doesn't want to encourage his incorrigible behavior. "I'll be back..."

"I'll be here," Dean quips, like he would be anywhere else except sitting beside his brother, holding the kid's hand.

Sam fights to keep his eyes open but ends up dozing as Missouri comes and goes, preparing equipment for the breathing trials.

After an hour has passed, they begin.

"We'll start with the T-piece," she explains, showing Dean a plastic tube that was aptly named for its resemblance to the capitalized letter. She attaches it to the tube protruding from Sam's mouth and smiles when he opens his eyes. "Hi, sweetheart. We're gonna get started, okay?" She returns her attention to Dean, more PICU nurse than aunt in this moment. "This will impose a pulmonary workload comparable to breathing on his own. It's labor-intensive, so we'll have to watch him closely. There's no monitoring of flow, pressure, or volume, and there are no alarms. It'll be up to us to monitor for signs of respiratory distress."

Dean frowns at the term. "Is this safe?"

"Yes. It's a well-established method," she assures. "It just requires precautions."

"How long will it last?"

"Sometimes 30 minutes. Sometimes two hours. Sometimes all day." Missouri wishes she had a more definitive answer but – "It just depends on the patient."

"Alright. Well..." Dean sighs, trying to ignore the anxious tightness in his chest. He doesn't want to take unnecessary risks with his kid's ability to breathe, but he _does_ want the tube out. He wants his brother to rest with no tension, no grimace of discomfort. "What d'ya say, Sammy? Should we get this party started?" Sam nods and squeezes his hand, but it's the repeated gurgled sound that seals the deal for Dean. "Okay. Let's do this."

Missouri smiles, admiring how Dean always manages to sound calm and confident in front of Sam despite his own apprehensions. It's a time-honored technique with a clear message – if big brother isn't worried, little brother shouldn't be worried. It usually works even in situations like this when big brother _is_ worried.

"It's gonna be fine," she says, trying to reassure her boys as she reduces the level of ventilatory support.

Sam's eyes widen at the immediate change in oxygen flow.

"Sammy?"

Sam winces at the increased pressure building in his chest as his lungs adjust to breathing on their own.

Dean glances at Missouri.

"The pressure you feel is normal, Sam. Just ride it out. You, too..." she adds when it seems Dean is more panicked than his brother. "His body hasn't had to breathe by itself for two days. It takes a few seconds to coordinate the process."

Dean nods, trying to be patient...until Sam's expression switches from _this is uncomfortable_ to _this hurts_. "We're done," he announces, his decision confirmed by Sam's stuttered gasp and rising vitals.

Missouri returns the ventilator to full support as she meets Dean's gaze across the bed and lowers her voice. "This might take longer than usual."

Dean narrows his eyes at the ominous statement. "Why?"

"Smoke inhalation, fractured ribs, fresh thoracic incision..."

Sam's vitals begin to elevate again. He knows she's talking about him, even if he doesn't feel the pain he would expect with a list like that. He just feels a strange combination of detached and anxious – like everyone is in on the secret about what happened to him...except him. He was at the track, then he woke up here. Everything in between is blank. How did he inhale enough smoke to be concerning? How many ribs did he fracture? Is the incision from surgery? Which one of those led to the tube down his throat and the two days of lost time?

Dean rubs his thumb over the back of his little brother's hand. His touch going round and round as he soothes his kid while listening to Missouri.

"Each of those factors on their own would make it difficult to breathe deeply, so having to contend with all three at the same time is definitely going to present challenges. But...the longer he stays on the vent, the harder it will be to get him off. Plus, we don't want to risk pneumonia or compromise his ability to swallow." She sighs, considering their options. "We'll let him rest and try again in another hour."

Dean nods. It sounds like a reasonable plan but – "I don't want to rush him."

"Neither do I," Missouri agrees. "A failed extubation usually leads to reintubation, which can impact overall recovery. So, we'll continue to take it slow. We'll gradually decrease oxygen as Sam increases tolerance. If it takes all day, it takes all day."

It takes all day.

There's less than half an hour left in Missouri's shift when Sam finally completes a successful breathing trial. "I knew you could do it!" she praises, feeling like she did when toddler Sam first walked by himself. "Great job, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you."

"'Bout damn time, Sammy," Dean grumbles, his brand of praise different but no less sincere. He beams at his brother, ruffling the kid's hair. "Only two more to go."

Sam grunts at the impossible task, then glances at the door as John arrives.

Dean follows his gaze. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey, boys," John replies, thrilled to see his youngest awake even if Sam looks like a shadow of himself – pale, weak, exhausted. "How's it going?"

"Sam's one step closer to breathing on his own."

John nods and smiles at Dean's report, hating how awkward he sometimes feels when his oldest assumes the role of primary caretaker of his youngest. It's nothing new and isn't going to change, but he wonders if others in the PICU think it's strange that the big brother has been with Sam since the beginning instead of the father. And who knows _what_ they think about the absent mother...

Bobby releases a low whistle, scattering John's thoughts as he joins him in the doorway. "Well now...look at you, squirt – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed." Neither description applies to Sam's current condition, but it's damn good to see the kid awake. "How you feelin'?"

Sam lifts his hand – the one not holding Dean's – and rocks it back and forth, indicating he feels so-so. It's the brave face he's learned to wear, but everyone in the room knows the true translation: he feels like crap.

"Perfectly normal," Missouri says, reassuring both her patient and his big brother. She gives an affectionate brush to Sam's bangs. "We're gonna let you rest before we start the second trial, okay?"

Sam lifts his hand again to flash the _ok_ sign as his eyes dip closed, then open at the new voice echoing down the hall.

"My goodness..." Ellen comments as she approaches. "I would've called ahead if I knew it was standing room only in here today. What's all the fuss about?" She steps between John and Bobby and smiles at the sight that greets her. "Ah. Awake at last."

Dean returns the smile. "Sammy. This is Ellen," he explains when his brother grips his hand a little tighter as the stranger stares at him. "She's your night nurse."

Sam processes the news before glancing at Missouri. He understands she is also his nurse but doesn't understand the attachment he feels toward her. There's a vague sense of an existing relationship, and while he's sure the new nurse is nice, he doesn't want Missouri to leave.

Missouri smiles at the spark of recognition that has grown stronger throughout the day. "I'll be back in the morning," she promises. "And I expect to see you taking deep breaths all by yourself." She crosses to the door. "Gentlemen. I think by now you know the rules."

John and Bobby nod, well aware only one visitor is allowed at a time and there are no visitors allowed during shift change.

"Dean..."

"This shift doesn't change, Dad."

John huffs a laugh as Dean points to himself. He knew his oldest wouldn't budge from Sam's side, but it was his parental responsibility to at least try to offer a break. "We'll be in the waiting room if you change your mind."

"I won't."

Bobby snorts at the quick response before leading the way down the hall.

Missouri watches them go, then begins stripping her protective gear while giving a brief overview of Sam's condition. "His vitals have remained stable throughout the day."

"Well, of course..."

Missouri smiles as Ellen casts a meaningful glance at Dean. "He's also completed his first spontaneous breathing trial."

"Great! One down. Two to go."

"Yes, but it literally took him all day."

Ellen nods and reads between the lines, knowing the challenges they expected with their patient's extubation are indeed manifesting.

"We're letting him rest now," Missouri continues, her smile returning when it looks like Sam is already asleep.

Ellen smiles as well as she fits a mask over her face.

"I love you both, and I'll see you tomorrow," Missouri tells her boys, even though only one is awake to hear it.

Dean gives her a brief glance of acknowledgment, too focused on Sam to offer much more.

Missouri sighs. She knows she's leaving Sam in good hands with Dean and Ellen, but she's reluctant to go. The next few hours are crucial to Sam's successful extubation, and it makes her uneasy to think about all the things that could go wrong.

"It's not my first rodeo."

Missouri hums a laugh at Ellen's not-so-subtle cue. "I know," she assures her fellow nurse. "I'm confident you can handle anything that happens. It's just different when they're yours."

"I get that," Ellen replies. "But less gawking, more walking."

Missouri pulls a face as her own words are used against her but doesn't resist Ellen shooing her from the room. She steps into the hallway and allows herself to linger at the window, hoping she'll feel foolish tomorrow for all the worrying she's doing tonight.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16

It's almost 10:00 when the final trial is complete, and Sam is ready for extubation.

Dean watches as Ellen makes final preparations, excited but hesitant. "It feels kinda late to do this now. Should we wait until morning?"

"No," Ellen says, covering Sam with a light blue drape sheet. She lays a hand-towel over the bedrail before turning to the cabinet on the far wall to gather more supplies. "I've extubated patients at all hours of the day. Time is irrelevant around here." She smiles at Dean, certain he's noticed the action never stops in the PICU. "What's most important is the patient's numbers while completing the breathing trials, and Sam's numbers have been consistently good."

Dean glances at the monitors, then arches an eyebrow as Ellen sets an emesis basin on the counter. "Are we gonna need that?"

She shrugs as she unwraps a suction catheter and attaches it to one of the tubes. "Not all patients throw up, but I've learned it's better to be prepared."

Dean nods his agreement as Sam makes a distressed sound and stares at him with wide eyes. "You'll be fine," he soothes and hopes that's true since no kid hates getting sick as much as _his_ kid.

"Alright, I think I have everything. Oxygen, nebulizer, crash cart..."

"Crash cart?" Dean repeats, his anxiety multiplying as he processes those two words and what they imply. He glances over his shoulder at the equipment waiting to revive his little brother and wonders if it's too late to call the whole thing off.

"We don't usually need it," Ellen assures him. "It's just – "

"Better to be prepared," Dean finishes, appreciating the precaution but – "Jesus." He sighs, trying to pull himself together as Sam's heart rate spikes. "Hey. Don't start..." he warns, his stern tone in contrast to the gentle squeeze he gives his kid's hand. "I know this is scary. And if I could do it for you, Sammy, I would."

The statement warms Ellen's heart, knowing Dean would indeed breathe for his little brother if he could.

"But I can't," Dean continues. "I can only sit here and watch you kick this ventilator's ass." He smiles, hoping he looks braver than he feels. "So, let's do it, huh? Let's kick it in the ass."

"Hell yeah," Ellen agrees, knowing the pep talk was for Sam, but it motivated her as well. She's getting this kid extubated. He's worked hard for it all day. He's earned it. "I'm gonna suction your mouth first," she tells him, completing the task before turning her attention to the part all patients hate. "And now I'm gonna suction your airway."

"It's okay," Dean murmurs, unsure which is worse – Sam's prolonged gagging expression or the amplified gurgling as secretions are sucked into the tube. "Almost over. Almost over..." Sam's hand tightens around his, his movements becoming agitated. "I know, Sammy," he says, though he can't imagine how uncomfortable this must feel. He only knows it's breaking his heart to watch his little brother go through it. "It's almost over."

"And now your mouth one more time." Ellen moves the suction catheter from side-to-side, then lays it on the drape sheet. "Good job, kiddo. All done with that part." She reaches for Sam's face, unstrapping the mouthpiece that keeps the ventilator tube stationary. "Okay..." She glances at Dean, demonstrating what she needs him to do. "Sometimes patients jerk their heads, so I need you to hold him like this."

"Just for a second," Dean promises, seeing the alarm in Sam's eyes at the mention of his big brother releasing his hand – the hand he's been holding for hours.

Ellen waits for Dean to assume position – one hand on Sam's chin, one hand on top of his head – before lifting the suction catheter. "This time when I go down into your airway, I'm gonna pull the tube, okay? I'll deflate the cuff, then pull, so I need you to cough."

Sam stares at her, terrified; his fingers twisting the fabric of Dean's jeans because that's the only part of his brother he can reach.

"It's okay, Sammy. Almost over."

"It _is_ almost over," Ellen confirms as she runs the catheter deep into Sam's airway, suctioning one last time. "Alright. Here we go, Sam. One...two...three..._cough_."

Sam gasps as the pressure of the cuff is released, then coughs and gags as the tube is pulled from this throat, bringing a string of thick secretions with it.

"I forgot to mention this can get messy," Ellen comments, swapping the endotracheal tube for the suction catheter.

Dean doesn't miss a beat. He's cleaned his messy kid since he himself was a kid. He grabs the hand-towel from the bedrail and wipes his brother's mouth and chin as Sam's chest rattles with another wet cough.

"That's it, Sam," Ellen praises as she suctions his mouth once more. "We want strong, productive coughs like that. Get all that junk up and out." She gives her patient a few seconds, then moves to the next item on her checklist: assessing vocal quality. "I know your throat is sore, and that's normal. But I need you to say something."

"D'n."

Dean smiles at his predictable little brother. Despite the hoarse voice and slurred name, it's the best thing he's heard in days.

"Like I didn't see that coming..." Ellen grumbles, though she's smiling as well as she glances across the bed at the beaming big brother. "Are you always his first word?"

"So far," Dean replies and hopes that never changes. He grasps Sam's reaching hand and laces their fingers as he sits. "I'm right here, Sammy."

Sam gazes at him through slitted eyes and takes his first full, independent breath.

Dean frowns at the harsh sound. "Whoa. Is that normal?"

Ellen hums but doesn't answer. She grabs a stethoscope from one of the drawers and presses the disc against Sam's neck, listening. "Sounds like stridor."

"Is that bad?"

"It's a post-extubation complication due to laryngeal edema caused by prolonged placement of the endotracheal tube."

Dean pulls a face at the explanation. "Okay. And in English that means..."

Ellen laughs at the reminder to speak like a person, not a medical professional. "It means the soft tissues in Sam's throat are swollen and inflamed because he was on the vent for two days. His airway is slightly narrower now, causing him to wheeze when he inhales."

Sam does it again, and Dean thinks he likes the new sound even less than the gurgling. "Is it permanent?"

"No. It typically improves with a round or two of corticosteroids, so I'll go grab that in a minute. Right now, we need to get this going." She untangles a thin clear tube from a mask connected to a cylinder. "This is an oxygen mask. This is a nebulizer." She points to the different parts. "The oxygen mask delivers oxygen, of course, and the nebulizer vaporizes the medication, so it's easier for Sam to breathe in."

"What kind of medication?"

"Bronchodilators. Pretty standard after extubation to help open the patient's airway." Ellen places the mask over Sam's mouth and nose, then adjusts the elastic strap behind his head. "Listen, kiddo. This needs to stay on, okay?"

Sam blinks at her, too tired to respond.

"It'll stay on."

Ellen smiles at Dean's assurance. "Maybe at some point we can switch to the nasal cannula for supplemental oxygen, but that will depend on his numbers." She glances at the monitors. "His O2 sats have dropped, which is expected, but we need to keep them above 95."

Dean nods. He's familiar with the acceptable range for Sam's vitals. What he doesn't understand is why his kid is still so pale. It's been two days since he received the blood transfusions. Shouldn't his color be better by now?

"Blood loss."

"What?"

"That's why Sam is still so pale," Ellen explains, smiling when Dean realizes he asked the question aloud. "With the amount he lost, it'll take _weeks_ for his color to return to normal, not days." She wonders if Sam's family knows how close the kid came to bleeding out but lets the topic drop. It's been a long day for both brothers, and Dean is just as tired as Sam. "Anyway..." She forces another smile. "Don't worry about that now. Try to get some rest. Take the advice my mother once gave me – sleep when the baby sleeps."

Dean chuckles, though he knows the comparison is accurate.

Ellen winks at him as she strips her protective gear and exits the room, returning a few minutes later to inject the initial dose of corticosteroids into Sam's IV line and clear the extubation equipment. "I'm taking everything but this," she says, nudging the emesis basin closer to Dean.

He groans at the implication. "Seriously?"

She shrugs. "Some patients react negatively to bronchodilators, so until we know if Sam is one of those patients, it's probably a good idea to keep it within reach."

"Great." Dean sighs and stares at his sleeping brother like the kid is a ticking time bomb. "How soon will we know?"

"Most patients start feeling the effects – both good and bad – one to two hours after treatment begins, so...soon enough." Ellen pats his shoulder in solidarity, then crosses to the door. "You know where I'll be," she tells him before giving the brothers their privacy, confident Dean will call if he needs her.

"One to two hours..." Dean repeats and glances at the clock, estimating if there's going to be trouble, it should start around midnight. But for now, all seems well. Sam is asleep, and Dean intends to watch every breath he takes. He doesn't intend to fall asleep himself and doesn't realize he did until he's blinking awake.

Sam is also awake, his uncoordinated movements rustling the sheets as he struggles to sit up.

Dean sits up as well, reaching for his brother as Sam reaches for the oxygen mask. "Sammy..." he calls, trying to gauge whether he's dealing with a disoriented kid or a kid who's about to be sick. "What's wrong?"

"M'gonna throw up," Sam announces, the words barely out of his mouth and the mask barely off his face before he gags.

Dean cringes at the close call, thankful nothing came up but knowing their luck won't last. He makes a blind grab for the emesis basin on the counter behind him and shoves it under Sam's chin as he helps the kid lean forward.

"I h-hate this," Sam hiccups as he gags once more.

"I know," Dean says, feeling his little brother tremble beneath his touch as he rubs back and forth between skinny shoulders. "But don't fight it, man. Just let 'er rip."

"I wish I c-could," Sam admits, gagging a third time without throwing up.

Dean frowns, wondering if his kid is just nauseous – trapped in the miserable loop of feeling like he's going to vomit without experiencing the relief of doing so. He glances at the clock – ten minutes past midnight – then refocuses on Sam as he curls over the kidney-shaped bowl with a wet burp that launches a watery spew.

"That's it, Sammy," Dean praises, bracing his brother as the cycle repeats; the kid whiplashing from dry heaves to active puking in less than two seconds. "Just get it out."

Sam gasps as stringy spit dangles from his mouth, his hand reaching for his big brother. "Dean."

"I'm right here," Dean soothes, squeezing Sam's shoulder since he can't support the kid, hold the emesis basin, _and _hold his hand all at the same time. "I've got you."

Sam moans before throwing up again; the vomit entirely liquid since he hasn't eaten in two days.

Dean keeps his attention on his kid but can feel Ellen in the doorway behind him, watching and waiting as Sam coughs and bends forward with a violent gag. He starts to speak, then erupts when another wave of nausea hits; fresh vomit splattering in the bowl before spraying a speckled pattern across Dean's gloved hand.

Dean doesn't even notice, too distracted by his little brother trying to turn himself inside out. He knows there's medication to make this stop and glances over his shoulder at Ellen.

She nods, holding up a syringe that's loaded and ready.

Dean nods back, granting permission to enter as Sam coughs once more – a deep, painful sound made worse by the wheezed inhalation that follows. "Sammy..." he calls when it seems there's a lull in the action. "Talk to me. Are we done?"

Sam hums a yes, unaware of the activity around him as his eyes dip closed.

Dean hands the brimming emesis basin to Ellen and moves from the chair to the edge of Sam's bed, sitting to face his brother. He catches his sagging kid and eases him forward to rest against his shoulder.

"You know that's dangerous, right?"

Dean answers her with a soft snort. He does know, and he doesn't care. He's been puked on by this kid more times than he can count, and he'll endure it again if it means he can hold his little brother and make him feel better.

Sam swallows and shudders as a ripple of nausea rolls over him.

"Easy," Dean murmurs. "Just try to relax." Sam grunts like that's easier said than done, but Dean can feel the tension lessening as he rubs the kid's back.

"D'n."

"Hmm?"

"I don'wanna do'at'gain."

Sam's voice is wrecked, but Dean still smiles at the slurred whine of an exhausted, sick little brother. "That makes two of us, Sammy." He glances at Ellen as she injects the anti-nausea medication into the IV line. "How soon should that take effect?"

"Ten minutes tops."

"Good. And no more bronchodilators, right?"

"Well..." Ellen checks the monitors. "His numbers are better, so we can delay the next dose and see if he maintains good O2 sats without them. We'll switch to a nasal cannula as well. The vomiting _should_ be done, but if it happens again, it'll be easier to manage without having to get the oxygen mask off first." She smiles as Dean nods, touched by how natural he looks sitting there holding his brother. She doesn't want to separate them but – "I need to check his incision. It's unlikely he ruptured any stitches but...better safe than sorry."

"Absolutely," Dean agrees, always erring on the side of caution with Sam. He leans forward, transferring his dozing kid from his shoulder to the bank of pillows; experience making the transition seamless and smooth.

Ellen's smile returns, impressed that Sam didn't wake. She lifts his gown and the bandage beneath, nodding her approval when the incision appears clean and intact. She allows Dean to resituate his brother's clothing and blankets as she reaches for the discarded oxygen mask and nebulizer. She exchanges one tube for another before looping the nasal cannula over Sam's ears and fitting its two prongs under his nose. She takes the stethoscope from around her neck and listens to him breathe – chest first, then both sides of his throat. "The stridor is improving," she reports. "We'll hold off on the next round of corticosteroids since his system is already overloaded with pharmaceuticals." She frowns as Dean stares at her. "What?"

"Where's your gown and mask? Are you putting my kid at risk?"

Ellen arches an eyebrow, both at Dean's inspection and his reference to Sam. She suspected their relationship was more paternal than fraternal, but it's the first time she's heard him use that possessive phrase. It fits, though. Sam is 100% Dean's kid.

"It's fine," she assures the glaring big brother. "It's been more than 48 hours after surgery, and Sam's last white count looked great. There are no signs of infection, so contact precautions have been lifted. I'll still wear gloves, of course, but you don't have to wear any protective gear moving forward. Sam is in the clear, which is a definite PICU milestone."

Dean's glare changes from pissed to skeptical. "Really? It's safe?"

Ellen knows he would wear protective gear for the rest of his life if it benefited Sam but – "Yes. It's safe."

Dean's doubtful expression is replaced with a huge smile. "That's awesome."

"It is," she agrees, watching as he stands to remove his gown and gloves before washing his hands.

"When can Sam eat?"

Ellen blinks at the unexpected question, though it's sweet in its own way. Feeding someone is such a nurturing thing to do.

"He hasn't had anything since dinner on Friday."

"That's okay. He's getting nutrients and hydration through the IVs, so I promise he's not starving. He _will_ be able to have a breakfast tray, though, since we typically wait four to six hours post-extubation before offering water and soft solids."

"'Soft solids' sounds like something you'd find in a baby's diaper."

Ellen laughs as Dean dries his hands and resumes his seat in the chair beside Sam's bed. "I guess you have a point. But I'm talking about eggs, applesauce...things like that."

"Sam is picky as hell, so the eggs are a waste of time if they're not scrambled like he likes them."

"And the applesauce?"

"That's a sure bet."

"Okay. I'll try to sneak an extra portion," Ellen tells him with a wink before glancing at the monitors. "Keep an eye on those O2 sats. Otherwise, he looks good – stable and resting."

Dean nods as she stands in front of the sink, discarding her gloves and washing up. "When can we take him home?"

"We're still a long way from that conversation," Ellen replies. "Sam needs to get well enough to transfer to a step-down room, then a room on one of the regular floors, and _then_ we can start discussing discharge." She snatches a few paper towels from the holder and turns. "Of course, by 'we' I mean medical staff in general. By then, I won't be involved in the conversation since PICU nurses stay in the PICU."

"That sucks."

Ellen shrugs even though she agrees. "That's the way it goes. We get attached to a patient, then they leave us."

_One way or another_...

She pushes away the dark thought as quickly as it comes because Sam does not fall into that category. He's making significant improvements and _will_ go home with his family, not downstairs to the morgue. She sighs.

"Anyway...don't think you'll be rid of me when Sam transfers out of this unit. I plan to visit and keep up with his progress."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say that."

She smiles. "Maybe you could use another aunt?"

"Maybe," Dean allows. "But you'll have to clear that with Missouri first."

"We'll see if we can work out joint custody," Ellen says, only half teasing since she knows her attachment to these boys is already too strong to just let them go. She crosses to the door. "Do you need anything?"

Dean shakes his head as he takes his brother's hand, staring at Sam like he has what he needs – this kid.

_His kid_, Ellen thinks, and though it's the kind of scene she has come to expect between these two, it still twists her heart. She lingers, watching them with misty eyes before returning to the nurses' station.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	17. Chapter 17

The room is on fire.

Or maybe not.

The space seems too small to be a room. Plus, rooms don't flip. They don't roll over and over, then stop and spin as you dangle from the ceiling. They don't smell like gasoline and melting metal and _blood_.

He hates the coppery tang in his mouth as much as he hates the ringing in his ears; the constant din competing with the roar of flames growing hot all around him. He wonders if this is how his mom felt before she died, and the thought agitates him even more. He pushes against whatever is holding him, but he knows he's trapped.

He tries to breathe, only to cough when smoke rushes into his lungs. The fire pops and crackles as it closes in, eager to devour, but he can tell there's a small opening beside him. He can see the flashing lights, can hear the wailing sirens mixed with yelling voices.

The chaos is mesmerizing.

He hangs there staring at it, dizzy and confused as he squints at the upside-down world. He watches a moving blur of legs and feet but no hands. No one is reaching in to save him.

He shakes his head, refusing to believe he's been left alone to die, to choke and burn like his mother. Even the possibility stabs him with fear, though he's unsure which is more distressing – his impending death or his mom's long ago.

He knows it's no use to cry, but he does. He cries in the smoky darkness as he listens beyond the noise, desperate for the one person who is always there when he needs him, always there when he's hurt or scared or upset.

Right now, he's all three.

He closes his eyes, trying to sharpen one sense by removing another, and _that's_ when he hears it – that familiar voice calling his name. He smiles, relief flooding his chest before suffocation squeezes it tight. He tries to reach for the hand that's reaching for him, but he can't move, can't _breathe_. He gasps, determined to answer, to call his brother's name with his dying breath.

"Dean!"

"I'm right here."

Dean's voice sounds so clear, so close.

"Sammy. Hey."

Sam blinks as the haze lifts to reveal his brother within inches of his face, holding him by his shoulders. "Dean?"

"It's okay," Dean soothes, his thumb sweeping over Sam's collarbone to further ground and comfort. "It was just a dream. I'm here. And you're safe."

Sam nods while his heart continues to hammer. His frantic gaze slingshots around the room as he remembers he's in the hospital, not burning alive.

Dean's hand slides to the center of his chest. "Deep breaths. Try to calm down."

Sam nods again, realizing the sirens he heard were the alarms on the monitors; the urgent beeps warning of dangerous spikes in blood pressure and heart rate while oxygen levels dropped below 95. He closes his eyes, turning inward as he allows his big brother's touch to help regulate his vitals.

"There you go," Dean murmurs, tracking the numbers. When they stabilize, he shifts his attention to his kid. He didn't think it was possible, but Sam is paler than before. His body is tense, his brow is furrowed, and even though those hazel eyes are closed, Dean can tell his little brother is trying not to cry. It's enough to make the big brother want to punch something.

Dean clenches his jaw instead, pissed at the new development – that Sam is forced to deal with nightmares now on top of everything else. As the seconds tick by, he wonders what his brother saw, what made him scream in sheer terror, but he won't ask or push for details. He'll just sit here on the edge of the bed, watching over his kid until his kid is ready to take the lead. If Sam wants to talk, they'll talk. If not, that's fine. Whatever Sam needs is what Dean will give.

He glances at the clock, surprised it's almost 2am...but not surprised when Sam's hand crawls towards his. Dean grasps it, lacing their fingers as his brother looks at him with teary eyes that never fail to break his heart. "Sammy..."

"Did I almost die like Mom?"

The question feels like a kick to the gut as it sucks the air out of Dean's lungs.

Sam stares at him, his suspicion confirmed by the silence that stretches between them. "On the..." He swallows against his sore throat, frustrated by how much effort it takes to talk. "On the track?"

Dean nods, hating how breathy and hoarse Sam sounds. "What do you remember?"

"Nothing. I only remember my dream."

"Okay," Dean allows, figuring they'll start there. "What did you dream?"

"It was dark. But there was fire. And smoke." Sam pauses as he recalls the scene. "Everything was so hot and loud and confusing. I tried to move but...I couldn't. And I couldn't breathe." He pauses again, remembering the earlier mention of smoke inhalation. "Is that why I was on the ventilator?"

"One of the reasons."

Sam frowns. "What other reasons?"

"You know you had surgery, right?"

Sam nods, having wondered about the incision on his left side that everyone keeps checking.

"Your spleen ruptured, so they had to remove it."

"They couldn't save it?"

"No. They were trying to save _you,_ Sammy."

Sam tilts his head, not following.

"You were bleeding out," Dean explains. "So, they did what they had to do."

"Oh." Sam processes the news, overwhelmed by a near-death experience he doesn't remember and a missing organ he doesn't know much about. He assumes he can live without it but – "Now what?"

Dean huffs a laugh at his brother's tone. "We adjust. You _can_ live without your spleen, Sammy. It'll just be different since your immune system ain't what it used to be."

Sam's eyes widen. "What does that mean?"

Dean shrugs like it's not a big deal, trying to soothe his little brother's building panic. "You'll have to get more vaccines and take antibiotics for a while, and we'll have to be careful about you getting sick. That's all."

"That's not all," Sam counters, his fingers skimming the stitches across his forehead. "What happened here?"

"Concussion," Dean answers, pulling his brother's hand away from the wound. "And you also have a few rib fractures on your left side."

Sam shakes his head. "I don't feel any of that."

Dean chuckles. "That's because you're on the good shit. I'm surprised you're not high as a fucking kite with all the drugs they keep pumping into you."

Sam hums, then sighs under the weight of sudden exhaustion. "I'm tired."

"You should be. This is the longest you've been awake and the most you've talked in several days."

Sam considers that timeline. "Why?"

"They sedated you, so you could rest and wouldn't fight the ventilator." Dean watches his brother wince as he swallows. "Does your throat hurt?"

Sam nods, wondering how much worse it will hurt once the pain medication is decreased.

"You don't feel sick anymore, do you?"

Sam groans at the memory. "No. That sucked."

"Yeah, it did," Dean agrees, watching his kid's eyes begin to droop with fatigue. "Go to sleep."

"You go to sleep."

Dean smiles at the little brother comeback. "You first."

Sam twitches an answering smile before his eyes dip closed, then open.

Dean frowns at his fearful expression. "What's wrong?"

"Will I have that dream again?"

The anxious uncertainty in Sam's tone and Dean's inability to give a definite answer makes the big brother feel helpless. "I don't know." He brushes the kid's bangs from his eyes. "But if you do, I'm still gonna be right here."

"You were there, too."

Dean narrows his eyes, wondering if Sam is still lucid or floating between asleep and awake. "I was where?"

"In my dream. I wanted you to come save me, and you did."

"Yeah, Sammy. I did."

_And I always will._

In any world that exists, Dean will be there for his kid.

He waits for his brother to drift to sleep before moving back to the chair beside the bed. He keeps a grip on Sam's hand as he drifts off as well, waking an hour later when the kid calls out for him.

"I'm right here," Dean assures, hoping this will not become part of Sam's nightly routine – sleeping an hour at a time before being startled awake by a recurring nightmare. "Hey. Look at me."

Sam's rapid blinks become more focused as he stares at Dean, desperate for an anchor. "My car flipped."

Dean nods, wondering if this is how it will go – his brother remembering different parts of the dream each time until the whole story is revealed.

"That's what was on fire."

Dean nods again, allowing Sam to lead the conversation like he did before.

"Nick."

Dean's stomach twists at the name. He had managed to escape this line of questioning earlier, but he knows where this is heading now. He just doesn't know how much _Sam_ knows, so he decides to play it cool and casual. "What about him?"

"He hit us?"

"Yeah," Dean confirms, sensing Sam's hazy recall about what happened after that.

"Is he..."

Dean holds his breath.

Sam frowns like he's trying to reach something beyond his grasp. "Is he okay?"

Dean snorts at the question. Only his little brother would ask about the well-being of the asshole who tried to kill them both and damn near succeeded with one.

"Dean..."

Dean sighs. He can't avoid this forever and would rather the kid hear it from him. "No, Sammy. He's not okay. He's dead."

"He's...what?" Sam shakes his head, his eyes filling with tears. "How?"

"Does it matter?" Dean replies, knowing he sounds like a heartless dick but unable to change his attitude or his sharp tone. "He's gone. He's not our problem anymore."

"I guess, but...I just wanted him to leave us alone. Not...not _die_." Sam's voice cracks on the last word. "Is it my fault?"

"What?" Dean has never heard anything more ridiculous. "Fuck no. Nick started something he couldn't finish, so karma finished it for him. What goes around, comes around, Sam. You did nothing wrong. That asshole got what he deserved, and I would rather him be dead than you."

Sam nods. He understands what his brother is saying, but it's still upsetting that someone died. It's even more upsetting that it could've been _him_, not Nick. Or worst of all – Dean. It could've been Dean. What would he have done if he had woken up to a world without his big brother? What if _Dean_ was dead?

Sam's expression crumbles at the thought.

Dean watches his overwhelmed, overwrought kid begin to sob and knows there's only one way to fix it. He releases Sam's hand, nudging him over while adjusting the wires and IV lines to clear a space before he climbs on the bed. He lays on top of the blankets and settles beside his little brother, lifting his arm. "C'mere..."

Sam doesn't hesitate. He curls against Dean's side, thinking of all the times they've laid like this over the years. At 17, he would usually consider himself too old to be held by his big brother, but right now he doesn't care. He feels fragile and shaky as he huddles in the safety of Dean's arms and continues to cry.

Dean lets him. He strokes Sam's back as the kid clings to him; his head on Dean's chest, hand twisting his shirt. At some point, Sam's tears fade, and they both drift to sleep.

That's how Ellen and Missouri find them when it's time to change shifts.

"This might be the sweetest thing I've ever seen."

Missouri nods in agreement, though she has witnessed this scene before. "I used to find them this way when they were kids. Dean would even climb into Sam's crib."

Ellen presses her hand over her heart like the image of a kid Dean tucked around a baby Sam is too much to handle. Her face begins to ache from smiling as she and Missouri hover in the doorway.

"It's creepy to watch people sleep."

The comment startles a laugh out of both nurses as Dean opens his eyes.

"It's also rude to disturb people's sleep."

"Touché," Dean replies as Missouri enters the room and Ellen tosses him a wave.

"I'll see you boys later tonight."

"We'll be here," Dean tells her, watching as she disappears into the hall. He glances at Missouri and arches an eyebrow at her intense stare. "What?"

"Rough night?" she asks, though she already knows the implications of Dean holding his little brother like this.

"You could say that."

"What happened?"

"Well..." Dean sighs and rubs his hand over his face – the one not wrapped around Sam. "Everything seemed fine until he started throwing up like he was auditioning for _The Exorcist_. Then once we got that under control, he started dreaming about the wreck...and kept dreaming...and kept dreaming."

"Nightmares?"

Dean nods. "He remembers the car flipping, then catching on fire. And he knows how bad he was hurt. But it was Nick's death that sent him over the edge."

Missouri frowns as she stands beside the bed. "He's always been sensitive like that."

Dean hums his agreement as he untangles himself from his brother, careful not to jostle the kid as he eases from the bed and stands. "Watch him for a minute?"

Missouri scoffs at the request. "Of course. Potty break?"

Dean cringes at her choice of words. "I'm 21, Aunt Missouri. I don't go potty. I take a piss."

She swats his arm, aware that this has become a game for him – using foul language just to provoke a reaction from her. "Go. Get out of here."

Dean chuckles and gives Sam a once-over before crossing to the door.

Missouri shakes her head, trying to resist the smile tugging at her lips. She completes her monitor checks and turns, surprised to see Sam blinking at her. "Well, hi there. Good morning, sweetheart."

Sam doesn't respond as he looks around the room.

"Dean will be right back," she assures, knowing his brother's absence is what woke him. "I'm so happy to see you off the vent. How do you feel?"

"Better," Sam says, his voice quiet and scratchy.

Missouri smiles, even though she can tell he's exhausted. She wonders if she should try to engage him in further conversation when he speaks first.

"You sang to me."

She doesn't know if he's referring to his childhood or to the song he heard while here in the PICU, but either way, it makes her eyes mist. "That's right, sweetheart. I did."

He smiles at her, shy and hesitant. "I remember."

Missouri feels like her heart is going to burst. "Do you remember _me?_"

Sam nods. "I missed you when you left."

"Oh, sweetheart..." Missouri sighs. "I missed you, too. _So_ much."

"I guess you're back now?"

"I am," she confirms. "Good luck trying to get rid of me."

Sam's soft laugh dissolves into a cough.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean tells him, returning to the room as an orderly delivers the kid's breakfast tray.

Sam wrinkles his nose at the smell of eggs. "I'm not hungry."

"Didn't ask and don't care," Dean replies, shutting down any chance of argument. He surveys the selections, smiling when he sees two containers of applesauce. _Thank you, Ellen..._ he thinks as he holds up the offering. "You don't want this?"

Sam bites his lip. He had planned to be stubborn about eating, but he didn't know there was going to be applesauce involved.

"That's what I thought," Dean says, taking his brother's silence as a win. He peels back the foil top and unwraps the plastic spoon. "Do you want me to make airplane noises?"

Sam scowls as Missouri helps him sit up, arranging pillows behind his back. "I can feed myself."

"That's debatable," Dean counters but allows the kid to try, draping him first with a towel Missouri hands over from the cabinet on the wall. He watches as Sam takes small bites, the whole process taking longer than it should.

It's a preview of the road to recovery. Everything takes Sam longer than it should – longer than it used to – but day-by-day, he gains strength. Day-by-day he takes steps toward going home until he's actually going home.

The transition is bittersweet. After almost a month in different units on different floors, the hospital's employees have become a second family. Nurses gather to fuss over their favorite patient as Dean rolls his kid down the hall. Sam blushes at all the attention, ducking his head and drawing himself into the security of Dean's old Metallica hoodie – the one he wears when he's sick, the one he requested that Dean bring.

John and Bobby are already downstairs waiting out front with the car along with Missouri and Ellen; both nurses taking the day off to relish their role as doting aunts and help with Sam's homecoming.

Dean smiles at the thought, thankful for his little brother's progress even though he knows they're not finished. The road ahead will be long, but they'll keep walking it together – just like they always do.

He pushes the wheelchair onto the elevator and waits for the doors to close before ruffling Sam's hair. The kid has been quiet all morning. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About what?"

"I don't know."

Dean pulls a face at the lie. "Don't give me that." He squeezes the back of his brother's neck, encouraging him to say whatever is making him moody and withdrawn. "C'mon, Sammy. Out with it before more of your adoring fans mob us."

Sam sighs and leans his head back to rest against Dean as his brother stands behind him. "Do you think Dad will make me race again?"

Dean watches the numbers light up as the elevator descends and wonders where this is coming from. It's the first time Sam has mentioned anything about returning to the track.

"Dean?"

"Dad won't make you do anything, Sam. If you _want_ to race again, that'd be awesome. But if you don't – "

"I'll be disowned."

"What?" Dean shakes his head. How long has his little brother been harboring these bullshit thoughts? "No. Why would you say that?"

Sam shrugs. "The family business and all that..."

"Fuck the family business," Dean snaps, irritated that his kid is worried about stupid shit when he needs to be focused on getting better. "Listen." He steps in front of his brother. "Me and Dad want the same thing – a happy, healthy Sam. That's it. That's all that matters. Everything else can go fuck itself. Got it?"

Sam twitches a smile, the expression widening when Dean leans forward, his hand to his ear as he waits for a response. "Got it."

Dean returns the smile and gives an affectionate pat to his brother's chest before crossing back behind him as the elevator dings. "Good. Now let's go home. We've got work to do."

* * *

**THE END**


End file.
